


Through the Eluvian

by DarkBlue



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Edgeplay, Eventual Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Light Bondage, M/M, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27263272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBlue/pseuds/DarkBlue
Summary: Mild canon divergence: Dorian steps through a mirror into an abandoned room. Opening the door, he finds himself – of all places – in a herb garden with Chantry sisters. The Inquisition wonders what to do with a Tevinter spy. They consult their resident spy expert, a representative of the Qun. He agrees to keep an eye on him.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 39
Kudos: 103
Collections: Actually Adoribull Fic





	Through the Eluvian

**Author's Note:**

> this one crept up on me in stages of daydreams (we're back to one shots babeyyy which is good because i write in spurts). I tried to finish it every day this week and the ending just kept edging out of sight. so it's flipping long. oh well. Also first split POV.
> 
> pretty much if you read all my work i've got four inquisitors and four background romances for them. they stay the same even if the main plot changes (so no, despite the same inky we are not in the same universe as a previous fic - i just like them lol).

“Lord Dorian?”

Dorian ignored the voice of the Seneschal. He was hiding. And if it was mildly embarrassing to be thirty-six and hiding from another adult – one who was older than his father – then so be it. He would hide in a closet if he had to. He did have to, and he was.

There was nothing very interesting in the closet. It was an alchemical supply closet, crammed full of half-cracked glassware, bottles of powdered metals, carefully labeled spell ingredients. There was even a table with folding legs propped up against a back wall at an angle.

After a second’s consideration, Dorian wormed himself behind the propped up table. He was glad he did when the door snapped open, the light flooding everything within. He held perfectly still. The table obscured his shadow.

“Why are we looking for him?” a guard asked.

“His father wants him,” snapped the Seneschal irritably. “And he can’t have left the estate. We’d have seen him.”

 _So_ you _think_ , Dorian thought smugly. He had perfected slowing time and fade-stepping to an art form. Relatively. And he was a skilled multi-spell weaver, which meant he could be doing that and still throwing a fire mine in the opposite direction as a distraction.

 _Andraste’s sweet breath_ , he was much too old to be behaving like a schoolboy.

And yet – the thought of seeing his father turned his stomach with an unpleasant jolt. He had overheard… _things_. Rituals his father had been discussing with colleagues.

“In a purely hypothetical way,” Halward had said mildly, passing around the brandy. “How _would_ one use a blood ritual to change brain waves?”

Something beneath Dorian’s back creaked, and he stepped hastily forward into the small space behind the table. It had sounded like straining glass, and the last thing he needed was to smash something just as the door closed. He turned in the tight space. The table had been propped at an angle to cover a large standing object, hidden under a drip cloth.

Some of the cloth came away as Dorian shuffled forward, revealing a bright reflective surface. Frowning, he carefully maneuvered the table – which was astonishingly heavy – to walk on its end towards the wall. He propped it to one side as the rest of the cloth fell away.

It was a mirror. It was strangely shaped, like a cathedral window, and very tall. Dorian craned his neck and realized the mirror, while not set into the wall, was stuck fast by being too tall for the room.

It was dark in the supply closet, but he was afraid to conjure flame. He didn’t doubt the Seneschal would get desperate enough to search for him more thoroughly. Instead, he stared into the mirror’s surface, frowning. It was an inky blue, and rippled under his gaze, showing none of his own reflection, nor even fog from his breath.

The fact that the mirror was magical was unsurprising, given its location in one of his father’s closets. What he didn’t know was why it had suddenly turned on when the cloth was removed. Had it been on this entire time, kept dark on purpose by the cloth and the table?

Dorian leapt back.

Faces. Faces in the mirror.

He had thought he had seen –

But it had been so fleeting.

Dorian sighed irritably. There was no help for it. He lit fire in his palm and raised it up over his head. The rippling dark surface of the mirror brightened to cobalt, rippling with jade.

It looked – viscous. Less like a reflection and more like a choppy pond after a pebble was dropped in. Slowly, Dorian reached out a hand. It passed syrupy through the surface of the mirror. On the other side was nothing.

As magical experiments went, that was promising. It could have bitten his hand off, or been freezing, or full of fire. When Dorian tried to stick a long metal probe through, the mirror’s surface held fast. Organic matter only, then.

There were loud voices.

“Under the door! Look! Light.”

“Lord Dorian! _Lord Dorian!”_

Dorian made a face as he turned.

The door to the alchemical closet banged open. Dorian frowned in surprise. The Seneschal, closer to seventy than sixty, was accompanied by not one, but six guards.

“What’s going on?” Dorian didn’t like how his voice sounded: nervous. Higher than normal.

“Your father wishes to see you,” the Seneschal panted, pointing a mute finger at Dorian. “You best come quietly.”

Dorian backed up a step.

The guards moved into the small closet. They were an arm’s length away.

Dorian backed another step.

The guards gasped.

Dorian felt nothing at all.

“Lord Dorian – your father –“

“Yes,” said Dorian, the light in his hands vanishing with his smile. “I know. Tell him I must _step out_.”

“No!” the Seneschal tried to say, but Dorian had backed a third step, lifting his boots up and over the edge of the mirror and shut his eyes.

* * *

He realized after a while it would be prudent to open them, in case he was in imminent danger of demonic possession.

He blinked.

The room where he was didn’t look very like the Fade, but it was certainly possible. The Fade held memories of places as easily as it held thoughts and feelings. It was an empty stone room, covered in sheets and debris, much larger than the closet he had just been in. However, in this one there was an identical cathedral windowed mirror, with its surface a roiling dark violet black.

Experimentally, Dorian put a hand to it, but only pressed on solid glass. He nodded to himself. It made sense that it would need time to recharge. Maybe after a few hours his father would have calmed down, and Dorian might have enough mastery of himself to face this ludicrous idea with some decorum.

The room was empty of people, but teeming with moss and little plants struggling up through the cracks. It was very dusty, which Dorian didn’t remember the Fade being before: something so banal as _dust._ There was one heavy wooden door set in the opposite wall.

Having nothing better to do, Dorian crossed to it and opened it.

He stood very still, his hand on the door handle.

The low sound he had taken to be background Fade noise resolved itself into many voices, footsteps, people _living_. He was standing in a covered walkway around a garden. Inside it were pots of herbs being industriously tended. A Chantry mother was talking softly with two other robed sisters. Their robes and wimples were red and white, instead of black _._

Where the hell was he?

Dorian drifted out and sat on a stone bench near the door he had come through. It clicked shut behind him. No one paid him any mind.

There were people in full armor hurrying past, clinking softly as their sheathed swords rattled against their greaves. There were mages in robes he couldn’t identify conversing softly in a knot. They weren’t wearing _any_ house colors, or the cords of the magisterium. People in scouting uniforms, and other cloth uniforms he couldn’t identify, dressed for trekking through the wilderness. Masons and builders. He even saw _elves_. Elves, with tattoos. He had read about those somewhere. The Dalish. It was so excessively odd to see any elves that weren’t slaves he almost missed a confederation of dwarves walking past.

Where the _hell_ was he?

There was no hope for it. Dorian stood and turned back to open the door with the mirror.

“Excuse me.”

Dorian pulled on the handle before a brown hand slammed it firmly shut. “Excuse me!” said the Chantry Mother. She was Orlesian by her accent and she frowned at him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I need to get in there.”

“No one is allowed in there.”

“But you see, I just came out of there.”

“What do you mean, you just came out of there?”

Dorian frowned, at a loss for how to explain. “Look,” he tried desperately. “Who’s in charge here?”

The Chantry Mother looked him over, clearly taking in his soft footwear, his rich clothing. Dorian wished he was wearing something plainer. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

“You’ve only just arrived?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You’ll need to speak to Ambassador Montiliyet.”

“Ambassador?” Dorian leapt at the word hopefully. “Yes, please. I would like to speak with them. I _need_ to speak with them.”

“All right, calm yourself,” the Chantry mother, despite her wrong colored robes, still managed to look as wry as any of Dorian’s previous schoolteachers. “Follow me. I’ll walk you.”

“Thank you,” Dorian said gratefully, and followed her to a set of stairs. The stairs led to a large round of battlements. Dorian stopped, confounded, as he stared around him at bright snowy mountains.

“What-“ he began.

“I could ask you the same,” chided the Chantry Mother. “How did you end up in the garden? There’s no direct path from the Main Gate, though I expect you’ve seen it.”

“I think I got lost,” Dorian offered numbly.

“And who exactly are you?”

“Oh,” said Dorian, struggling to catch her up as she held a door open for him. He went through it, then bowed. “I’m Dorian Pavus.”

“And where are you from, Ser Pavus?”

Dorian didn’t correct her on his title. He was too busy staring at the inside of a half ramshackle ruin of a castle. It matched the shabby empty stone room below, only it was an enormous hall. A dark-skinned woman with a shaved head was regarding them curiously from an incongruously expensive fainting couch.

“Giselle, who is this?”

“A diplomat who got lost,” said Mother Giselle promptly. “At least, that’s what he’s claiming. I found him trying to get into a door in the herb garden.”

The thin woman was a mage. Dorian could feel it thrumming beneath her skin like music playing just out of his hearing, pulsing through his jawbone. Dorian had felt magisters less powerful than she was. Her eyes narrowed, feeling him in return.

“An apostate?” the woman asked Giselle.

Mother Giselle looked confused. “Are you an apostate?”

“I beg your pardon?” Dorian asked, utterly baffled. “Am I a what?”

“Did you run from or have you ever been in a Circle Tower?” clarified the mage.

“A what?”

She sighed irritably. “I’d best go with you. Are you taking him to Josephine?”

“I thought it best.”

“I quite agree. Come along – “ She frowned at Mother Giselle.

“Dorian,” Giselle said promptly.

“Of course,” dimpled the mage. “Dorian.”

“Dorian Pavus,” Dorian managed to add idiotically, staring over the balcony. He felt a hand on the back of his robes dragging him half-stumbling out a door opposite the one they came. They took a flight of stairs down and through another left-hand door into a study.

It would have been a nice study – or would be again, depending on the state of repairs. Dorian noticed there were no hangings on the walls. No rugs on the floor. No chairs for guests. There was only a great lumbering desk without even wall sconces or lanterns beneath an iron mullioned window. Behind the desk sat a young woman, perhaps seven or eight years his junior, dressed in yellow satin.

She looked up briefly as she annotated something on the papers spread messily in front of her under the helpful light of a single candle, but then looked back up in a doubletake of obvious surprise.

“Vivienne!” she exclaimed. Dorian assumed this must be the mage’s name. “Mother Giselle. What is it? Have you brought…” but she trailed off, frowning at Dorian.

If she had any compunction about who she was, she glided over it smoothly, ringing a small bell on her desk and asking the young woman who came in for a tea service.

“I apologize,” said the ambassador. She had taken in Dorian’s outfit in a practiced sweep. “We don’t have any furniture yet. Just moved in, as you see.”

“Yes,” said Dorian vaguely. His gaze was fixed on her face, desperately hoping she could help him. But she was Antivan. He had thought he was going to meet the Ambassador for whatever this place was, but Mother Giselle was Orlesian, this ambassador was Antivan, and they were in the mountains. Where the _hell_ was he?

“I found him in the herb garden.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” the ambassador said at once. “Did you get separated from your contingent?”

“Contingent?” asked Dorian, baffled.

“The people you came with,” the ambassador said smoothly, as if Dorian didn’t know what a contingent was.

“I came alone.”

“You-“ This seemed to stump her for a moment, and she waved gladly for the tea tray to be brought in.

“My dear,” said the mage to the ambassador. “He is an apostate, we think. We don’t know how he arrived.”

“An apostate?” asked the ambassador. “In those clothes?”

Dorian turned from where he had been trying to peer out of the high window. “Excuse me?”

“I only meant,” apologized the ambassador smoothly. “That you are not wearing outdoor shoes.”

Dorian looked down at his slippered feet. They were neat cloth black shoes. He nodded absently.

“I’m Josephine Montiliyet,” said the ambassador, offering him a cup of tea. “And this is Vivienne de Fer and Mother Giselle of the Chantry.”

“Dorian Pavus,” said Dorian, taking the cup.

“And how did you come to be in the herb garden?” asked Josephine politely again, but with an edge to her voice. “If you came alone?”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” said Dorian, then slitted his eyes at the disbelieving look on Vivienne’s face. “I don’t! One moment I was hiding in a closet on my father’s estate, and the next I was here.”

“Here in the garden?” asked Vivienne sharply.

“No,” said Dorian slowly, looking at their three horrified faces. “I came through a mirror.”

There was a fixed silence.

“A mirror?” asked Vivienne irritably at last. “A fairy story. A fanciful bard song.”

Josephine was discreetly ringing her table bell again and Dorian looked imploringly at the Chantry mother.

“Tell them!”

Mother Giselle hesitated, then admitted slowly: “Morrigan has had me watching a room near the chapel. In it is a mirror.”

Vivienne glanced at her sharply. “And when did this begin?”

“Soon after we arrived in Skyhold,” said Mother Giselle, restoring some of her equilibrium. “I only keep an eye when she is not there herself.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dorian, very pleasantly. “Skyhold?”

“This is Skyhold,” said Josephine anxiously. “Why?”

“Please,” said Dorian, his voice dangerously calm. “Can someone tell me _where the hell I am?”_

The teacup broke between his fingers, and both Josephine and Mother Giselle leapt back. Vivienne only narrowed her eyes at him just as the door to Josephine’s study banged open.

“What is it?”

The man who had rushed in was breathless and pink cheeked with cold or exertion. He was wearing a large mantle of black wolf fur and had shockingly blonde hair. Dorian had never seen such blonde hair.

“Who is he?”

Dorian winced. Both he and the stranger had spoken in time together.

“Cullen, this is Lord Dorian,” said Josephine, her eyes pleading.

Cullen’s hand was on the sword hilt at his hip.

“Please,” Dorian said, putting the shattered cup on the desk. “Can someone _please_ tell me where I am?”

“You’re in Skyhold,” said Mother Giselle impatiently.

“ _Where is Skyhold?”_

“Between Orlais and Ferelden,” said Josephine, who had backed two careful steps towards the desk.

Dorian could feel a spell burbling under the surface of Vivienne’s calm stare, though she hadn’t moved either her lips or her hands to prepare it.

“We are,” Dorian forced himself to blink. “We are. In. Orlais.”

He had never been to Orlais.

“Between Orlais and Ferelden,” Josephine said brightly again, then paused, concerned, at the look on his face. “Where are you from?”

“Tevinter,” said Dorian, without thinking, and felt the spell catch hold of him, rooting him in place while Cullen drew his sword.

“What is this?” Dorian demanded irritably. “I’m not an official representative – or a slaver – or a – a –“

 _“Spy_ ,” said Cullen grimly.

“I’m not!”

“A magister from Minrathous?” asked Vivienne icily.

“A magister’s son,” said Dorian apologetically. He didn’t technically live in the capitol, but it didn’t seem prudent to argue the point now.

“A _mage_.”

“Well, yes, but –“

“Blood magic?”

“What about it?”

Vivienne’s face was a hard stone. “Do you practice blood magic?”

“Not as such, but –“

“Not _as such?”_

“Look, I didn’t ask to be here,” Dorian snapped. “I don’t know what Skyhold _is_ or what all you people are even doing in an abandoned ruin! If it’s academic I swear I’m not a spy. The journal submissions won’t come out for - I don’t even –“

Cullen was staring at him strangely. “Academic?” he asked, puzzled. “We’re…we’re the Inquisition.”

Dorian stared at him, just as baffled. “The what?”

He felt the spell holding him in place loosen so suddenly he staggered. The entire group took a step back like he might have the pox.

“We need to –“ Josephine tapped her two index fingers before her mouth. “Discuss this. Where can we leave him?”

“Not the War Room,” said Cullen at once, catching Josephine’s eyes drifting towards the second door in the room. “There’s information everywhere.”

“We have surveyed the dungeons,” said Mother Giselle clearly.

“The _dungeons_?” Dorian rolled his eyes. “Really, that’s a bit extreme.”

“Well we could put him in a guest room,” offered Vivienne icily. “If we are treating him as such. Though I will say let one Tevinter in, suddenly they're scurrying out of all the walls like roaches.”

"Ouch," said Dorian.

“Give him a guest room, and post guards at the door?” asked Josephine with real temper. “How is that better than a prison cell?”

Vivienne shrugged elegantly. “One has a bathtub.”

Dorian blew out a noisy breath. “I’m not going to try to escape, or anything. I’m so far from – from _anything –_ I’m basically stuck here until I can go back through. Just put me in the corner of a library or something.”

Cullen looked at Josephine, who looked at Vivienne.

“Fine!” she threw up her hands. “I’ll take him to the library.”

“You can set Cole to watching him,” Josephine added.

“Absolutely not,” said Vivienne grimly, waving an expansive and polite hand for Dorian to proceed her. “I’ll do it myself.”

* * *

It was certainly _better_ , objectively better, to live in an alehouse than a tent. Krem and the others had even claimed the rooms across the way, above where the quartermaster worked. The young man was nervous and shy, but Rocky had taken a liking to him and bullied, cajoled, and tricked their way into his good graces.

The Iron Bull had been thinking about tumbling him, just the once. The young man obviously needed to build confidence in the department, but Bull was biding his time. There was no rush, here, when there was so much to do in Skyhold. Better wait for him to twist himself into a frenzy, and Bull would be there to provide an unwinding.

“Get on!”

The Iron Bull glanced up as Sera came pounding down the stairs. She made an incredible amount of noise for someone so slight. She pointed at Bull as soon as she could duck her head down past the railing. “Come on! You!”

“Me?” Bull asked, grinning lazily.

“Yes, you! Mr. Fancy Pants! Let’s go! Lavellan called for us.”

“Did she now?” Bull crossed his arms, glancing sidelong at Krem to make sure he was tracking. “I didn’t hear that.”

“Because I’m telling you _now_ ,” Sera said irritably. “That _thing_ told me. Popped _right_ in my room, with not so much as a ‘sly your vee’ or whatever.”

Sera made an obscene gesture to accompany the butchered aphorism.

The Iron Bull nodded at Krem, who nodded back. He would move to Bull’s spot when Bull was gone and keep an eye on things. There was a lot to be keeping an eye on. Krem was a good sort, but not a natural noticer. Bull was having an uphill battle to get him to remember things like people’s clothes or checking the time when people came or went.

“Any idea what this is about?” he asked Sera, rolling his stiff neck on his shoulders. She was staring up at him with her mouth open and abruptly clicked her teeth shut.

Bull thought she couldn’t be more than twenty-three. He grinned at her, and she rolled her eyes. He hadn’t gotten her to blush yet, but the usual gimmicks didn’t work on those who only liked women.

"Oh yes," said Sera, grinning conspiratorially. "They caught a spy."

The Iron Bull raised an eyebrow. "Did they now?"

"Yeah. And they want _you_ to take a look at him.

Bull sighed an aggrieved sigh, and Sera skipped a step forward, grinning triumphantly as they went to roust Blackwall.

* * *

“A spy?” said Leliana doubtfully. “From Tevinter?”

Josephine and Cullen both nodded, but Leliana didn’t change her expression. “But you say he came alone. That he had no luggage and no staff. That he didn’t even have on boots!”

“I don’t know _how_ he arrived,” said Josephine irritably. “But I don’t know why else he would be here.”

“He’s likely scoping us out,” said Cullen, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. Iron Bull watched with muted interest as Lavellan put her own slim fingered hand on Cullen’s arm, and he dropped it guiltily.

“Could there be any truth to what he says?” asked the Inquisitor, absently rubbing at the black bristle on the side of her head that she kept shaved.

“That he fell through a mirror?” sniffed Cassandra. “Hardly likely.”

Bull flicked his eye to where Solas had shifted uncomfortably. Briefly, their eyes met, and Solas made a face before drawing breath. It was so loud in the silence that Lavellan looked at him pointedly, flicking her irritated glance at Bull and making him smile.

She was clever, that one. He wished Krem were like her. But Lavellan had been raised on the run, as much as anything. Where every little thing in camp was watched, every person known, their habits a silent undercurrent to your own life. Lavellan knew her clan, and now her clan was the Inner Circle.

“It is possible,” Solas said unwillingly.

Everyone turned towards him.

“A magic mirror?” drawled Varric. “Sounds like a story.”

“It is a story,” said Solas simply. “Long ago there was a network of mirrors.”

“No,” said Varric, his face slowly darkening.

“And not all are accounted for.”

“ _No_.”

“Varric?” Lavellan looked worried.

“Don’t tell me what it’s called,” and Varric’s voice was pleading. “Don’t say –“

“The Eluvians.”

“Fuck.”

“Varric, what is it?”

“You won’t like it,” said Varric grimly, rubbing the stubble around his mouth. “I – I may have stumbled across one of these before.”

“ _You_?” asked Solas, with such insulting incredulity that Iron Bull coughed something like a laugh under his breath, drawing another flickering glimmer of annoyance from Lavellan, who was softer on Solas than Bull thought she had a right to be.

“Not me, personally,” said Varric unwillingly. “But I knew someone who had one.”

“Who _had_ one?” Bull thought Solas might be going for world champion of scorn.

“In Kirkwall?” that was Leliana, and her voice was firm and clear, cutting through the silence Solas left whenever he spoke.

Cullen’s mouth seized up whenever Kirkwall was mentioned, and Lavellan’s fingers closed around his arm again. She caught Iron Bull looking and jerked her eyes at Leliana instead, so Bull obligingly refocused.

“Yeah,” said Varric defensively. “She pulled it out of a wreck. Tried to fix it.”

Now Solas wasn’t laughing. He was leaning forward interestedly. “And did she succeed?”

“No,” said Varric shortly. “She smashed it.”

“She _smashed_ it?” Solas looked so mutely furious that Lavellan redirected him:

“Solas, what are the Eluvians, then?”

“They are gateways,” said Solas, still regarding Varric with something like white-hot rage, though Bull could discern no source.

Varric was stoically ignoring it.

“Gateways?” prompted Josephine.

“And communication devices,” said Solas unwillingly.

Bull could tell Solas was not going to be candid about all he knew here.

“So it is theoretically possible for Dorian to have fallen through one?” Lavellan pressed.

“Possible,” admitted Solas. “But unlikely. The Eluvian has to be on. It has to be hooked to a network. The network has to be on. The receiving mirror has to be unbroken. It’s – it’s a lot of chance to be true.”

“I see,” said Leliana coolly. She looked over at the Iron Bull directly.

“And would you know a spy if you saw one?”

The Iron Bull scratched his chin. It made a soft scraping sound in the loud silence. “Maybe,” he said slowly.

“We’re going to need more than a maybe,” said Lavellan, but apologetically, her voice smoothing over her previous irritable prickles.

“It’s like Solas said.” Iron Bull liked agreeing with random people to see how they took it. Solas looked cross but confused. Good. So at least he didn’t regard Bull with all-out disdain, even if he didn’t like him.

“There’s a lot of moving parts. How good they are. How long they’ve been doing it. If they’re trying to gather on people or on locations. How they talk. How they act. It’s not something you can spot right away. At least not for someone half good at the job.”

“And he’s a mage,” Josephine put in.

Everyone looked at her.

“If that makes a difference,” she clarified hastily, her cheeks burning.

“So we’re going to swallow – at least for now – his story of how he got here,” said Lavellan slowly. “But what are we going to _do_ with him?”

“Send him back,” said Cassandra at once. “If he _is_ a Tevinter spy, the damage he could do is unparalleled.”

“We cannot send him back,” said another voice, and Bull was the only one who didn’t jump. He had heard Morrigan pacing calmly down the hallway. There was still enough crushed stone underfoot to crunch.

“Morrigan,” said Lavellan dryly. “I assume the mirror is yours?”

Everyone was watching Morrigan, and it was hard not to. Bull admired a woman who dressed with pride. But he was watching Solas.

The elf’s eyes had gone flat with repressed emotion, his mouth tight. He stepped half a step into the corner, and Iron Bull couldn’t figure out if he was expressing disgust or fear.

“It is,” said Morrigan calmly. “I was going to show it to you as soon as I had it working.”

“Is it not working now?” asked Josephine, frowning.

Lavellan’s face was painted with skepticism in broad sweeps. Bull didn’t blame her. Morrigan claiming after the fact she had always intended to include the Inquisitor seemed suspect.

“The short answer,” said Morrigan. “Is no. It is not.”

“Why not?” Josephine pressed, “If Dorian came through?”

“I don’t know,” said Morrigan, and her voice was waspish enough to cover her unease that Bull believed her. “I had unlocked it – “

“Unlocked it?” said Varric sharply.

“Think of them as doors,” said Morrigan, her voice resuming some of its affected calm, though Bull could see the corners of her eyes were tightly held. “They can be locked from either side.”

“And you unlocked your side?”

“Yes,” Morrigan hesitated. “Either Dorian unlocked his side, or someone else did.”

“And he fell through to the only other unlocked door?”

“Only other is a stretch,” said Solas dryly.

“I agree,” said Morrigan, glancing sidelong.

Solas looked ill-tempered again to be agreed with.

“It would be highly unlikely that the pairing was accidental.”

“So what are you saying?” frowned Cassandra. “Tevinter _meant_ for him to come here? That he is a spy?”

“Skyhold was an elven fortress once,” said Solas. “As was the land that is now Tevinter.”

“ _Elves_?” asked Morrigan scathingly, and Bull almost smiled to see that Solas looked in a better temper to have someone to regard with droll amusement.

“We surprise everyone, it seems,” Solas’ voice was brittle.

“So this was planned?” Cassandra repeated.

“If by planned you mean these two mirrors were linked once,” said Solas impatiently. “Then fine.”

“Linked?” asked Varric uncertainly.

“Some of the doors are linked in couples,” said Morrigan, also impatient that everyone was not having the same conversation she and Solas were _not_ having. “Some are not.”

“How can you tell?” asked Lavellan.

“You can’t.”

“Oh, that’s great,” said Varric sarcastically.

“Be that as it may,” said Morrigan, her voice carrying over the murmurs. “Dorian is here now. And he cannot get back until the other side unlocks the door.”

“The _other_ side?” Lavellan asked sharply. “Someone found his mirror?”

“And locked it,” said Morrigan succinctly. “Near as I can tell.”

“And what if we wanted to uncouple the mirror?” asked Leliana slowly.

Morrigan smiled at her, and Bull felt something like electric hatred – or _not_ hatred, his mind corrected hastily – as the two women finally glanced at one another. _Stupid_ , he berated himself, not to notice they were the only people who hadn’t accidentally locked gazes even once.

“Now,” said Morrigan with a smile on the word that sent a thrill even up the Iron Bull’s spine. “That’s the idea.”

“But what do we do with him?” demanded Cassandra, blind to the subtext.

Leliana dimpled fondly at her Chantry partner. “We put up with him.”

“Put up with-“ Cassandra mouthed for a moment. “But he’s a spy!”

“We don’t _know_ that,” Lavellan said, placating.

Cassandra made some noises in the back of her throat, and both Blackwall and Sera, who had been whispering to each other in a corner, snorted in unison.

Cassandra whipped her head around to glare, but before she could start a fight, Bull volunteered:

“I’ll watch him.”

Every eye turned towards him.

“What?” asked Cassandra finally, with the kind of aggression that clearly meant she didn’t think much of the Iron Bull in the first place as an open spy for the Qun.

“Leliana is busy,” said Bull.

Leliana was not paying attention enough to agree or disagree. She and Morrigan were still staring at each other, something between challenging and friendliness. Bull wondered in the back of his head if he was getting soft or if this was a tangle of a relationship even he couldn’t work out. He hadn’t even known they knew each other before the Inquisition, yet their silence connoted a longer relationship.

“I’ll watch him. If he’s a spy, I’ll figure it out eventually. At least I can direct him away from the important bits.”

“Vivienne should watch him too,” said Lavellan. “We’ll need a mage, and she reports he’s pretty powerful.”

“He _is_ the son of a magister,” Josephine said. Everyone looked at her again, and she flushed. “What?”

“What does that matter?” Sera fired up at once. “Because he’s some lord?”

“No! It’s not his – I mean,” Josephine stumbled. “Magisters are the most powerful mages. And their families. They breed for – I mean mate – I mean – _marry_. They are politically aligned to create – I mean – you know what I mean! The Pavus line has been cultivated-“

“To make him,” finished Iron Bull.

Josephine looked miserably at Cullen, who was staring down at the black crown of Lavellan’s head as she thought.

 _Poor guy’s got it bad_ , Bull thought with amusement. Cullen had two ways to carry his face: a stoic mask, which Bull found less than opaque, or openly, which Cullen didn’t seem to realize was quite _so_ open. The naked adoration as he stared at the Inquisitor made her cheeks tint vaguely under her medium tan skin.

“I’ll talk to Viv,” said Iron Bull, and he straightened from where he had been leaning against the stone wall. The War Room had no chairs in it, and they were talking to each other in a ring around the slab of a table Cullen was leaning against, murmuring in a low undertone to Lavellan.

“Vivienne will not like it,” said Cassandra authoritatively. She was always authoritarian. Bull grinned at the unsubtle correction of the name.

“I have no doubt.”

* * *

“I don’t like it,” said Vivienne flatly.

“Well,” said Dorian, equally frustrated. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“ _Never?”_

“Never.”

“And how do we know you’re not an abomination?”

“I suppose you’ll have to trust me.”

“Trust _you_. The man in the mirror?”

“Isn’t that a story?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Look, I didn’t _ask_ to come here.”

“No shoes, no staff, no harrowing.”

“Hang on, are you – “ Dorian paused, staring sidelong at her neutral face. “Are you _teasing_ me?”

“I would never do that,” said Vivienne automatically.

After a moment, Dorian grinned, and Vivienne pretended to browse titles on the shelves in the alcove where they were standing.

“You _like_ me,” Dorian smiled.

“Definitely not.”

“Oh, of course.”

“You have a rather high opinion of yourself.”

“Yes, well, better than the opposite.”

Vivienne made a skeptical noise of disagreement, and Dorian rolled his eyes.

“Would you like me better if you could wallop me into the field?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh Maker, you would, wouldn’t you?”

“I said what I said.”

Dorian turned back around, actually smiling, before he stopped, blinking. The largest qunari he had ever seen was navigating slowly through the people and tables towards them from a door on their level.

Vivienne turned also and her stoic mask resettled into place.

“Ah,” she said lightly. “The Iron Bull. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

The qunari flashed an ear to ear white smile. To Dorian, it read like a threat. The kind of smile he might have given at a social function of a magister he despised.

“Here to show Dorian around.”

“ _You_ are?”

“For now. Boss wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

Vivienne cut her eyes at Dorian, though he pretended not to see as he perused the shelves. There were a lot of rare books for a ruin.

The Iron Bull only hitched a shoulder, and, acquiescing, Vivienne nodded gravely to Dorian. “Perhaps you will deign to have tea with me, tomorrow, four o’clock.”

Dorian smiled. “I’d like that.”

“And bring something to work on.”

“What?”

“I haven’t studied in Tevinter. Or with anyone from Tevinter. If you’re not about to murder me for blood magic –“

“Funny,” said Dorian dryly.

“You might deign to teach me,” Vivienne said coolly.

Dorian stared at her, but she left without another word.

The qunari whistled. “You must have impressed her. Never heard her humble herself to a student before.”

“I rather think it’s a trap,” said Dorian apologetically. “To catch me in something.”

“Oh,” said the qunari cheerfully. “That makes more sense.”

“Dorian.”

“The Iron Bull.”

 _“The_ Iron Bull?”

The qunari flashed the threat-smile again. “Yeah. I like the titular article.”

Dorian paused, rubbing his head.

“You okay?”

“Well I did just fall through a mirror, so – you know – less okay than on average.”

“Come on, we’ll walk and talk. I’ll take you up to the battlements.”

“And push me off?” guessed Dorian dryly.

“Nah, got nothing with Tevinter. The Qun might, but I don’t personally.”

Dorian frowned. "No Qunari would accept a Tevinter mage so easily... unless it was a ruse. When should I expect a knife in the back?"

The Iron Bull laughed.

“What?” Dorian shrugged defensively. "You've killed lots of my countrymen, I take it?"

The qunari shrugged. "Sure, usually when I'm being paid for it."

"What? Never just for fun?"

The qunari smiled again, the threat. "I'm here, aren't I? Man's gotta take his fun where he can find it."

Dorian stared at him.

The qunari raised his eyebrows. He had an eyepatch. An honest to Maker eyepatch. "What?"

“Nothing.”

“ _What?”_

“You’re – “

“Different than most qunari? Yeah. I get that a lot.”

“You smile more.”

“Do I?” asked the Iron Bull, full title, with a smile that was not a smile.

Dorian frowned in faint puzzlement at him. The smile shrank to a more normal size, the lips twisting crookedly in wary respect.

“You good at faces?”

“Am I what?” asked Dorian, descending the stairs from the library and turning right as an automatic shadow to the Iron Bull.

“Good at faces.”

“I don’t know,” said Dorian, bewildered, staring over the sides of the ramparts as they walked.

It was bizarre. There were thousands of people below, scurrying in tasks Dorian could not fathom. People were healing by tents. There were soldiers drilling. Cartmen hauling stone. Workmen on scaffolding.

“Did you meet Cullen?”

Dorian jerked his gaze up and realized they were at the door. “Who?”

“The Commander. Blonde. Blushes.”

Dorian wracked his brains. “I think he came in at the beginning. When we were in the ambassador’s study.”

“Josephine.”

“What?”

“The ambassador. She’s called Josephine.”

“Oh.”

Dorian got the sense he was being watched closely, even as the Iron Bull surveyed the mountainside while Dorian stared slack-jawed. He wanted to be cleverer. Debonair and handsome. But he only felt very stupid and very lost and _very_ cold. The stone was leeching all the warmth through the soles of his feet, and he shivered, crossing his arm in the cutting crosswind.

“Down?” suggested the qunari.

Gratefully, Dorian nodded. He followed the qunari through a series of abandoned guard towers, full of vines or half-moldering ladders up to archer platforms. They turned down a switchback staircase near what by smell was the stables, and Dorian tried not to wince when his thin cloth shoes were soaked through in cold mud as they crossed to a half wood, half stone building.

“This is the Herald’s Rest. Most call it the Rest. Only place to drink and one of the only places to eat.”

Dorian had never been on a stranger tour. Instead of half threats and views of weapons and armies, or even of grand beautiful furnishings and rooms, he was standing on the sawdust floor of a common alehouse as the Iron Bull beckoned him to the back wall.

The qunari settled down into a chair and then nodded a chin at another chair.

“What are we doing?” Dorian managed to be heard over the low roar of people. The room was packed in sweaty noise, and there were crowds at every available table, even eating standing up behind the bar or crammed leaning near wooden posts. Every chair was taken, except these.

Where the _hell_ was he?

“Eating lunch,” the Iron Bull smiled at him. It was still not a smile, but it was getting closer.

Dorian returned it weakly. “Fantastic,” he said weakly. “I’m starving.”

* * *

“So is he a spy?” asked Lavellan, only half-teasing when she took Bull’s weekly report. Usually it was a short one: what the Chargers were doing, or any gossip Leliana hadn’t managed to recover. But some weeks it was longer, like this one. The Qun had written missives and instructions. They had to decode the cipher, had to filter it to Leliana, had to write a report back, had to have Lavellan review it. It was all tedious.

But that was the job.

To make matters stranger, Bull had been spending a lot of his time around Dorian. At first it had been all business: Dorian didn’t have any clothes. Dorian didn’t have any shoes. Dorian needed mustache wax; Dorian wore makeup; Dorian needed a tub; Dorian needed a staff. The first week had mainly been walking to and from the quartermaster who had turned such a brilliant red the first time Dorian had flirted cheerfully with him, the Iron Bull hadn’t needed Sera’s poking hiss to realize he preferred men.

“Maybe I should show him-“ Sera had begun.

“ _No_ ,” said Krem, who always blushed too much when Sera got naked.

“Maybe later,” amended Bull, who always thought it was funny when Sera took it into her head to be crass.

“What?” Dorian had asked, and Sera had stuck out her tongue and run away.

“What?” Bull echoed now, shaking his horns and feeling them cut the air above his head.

“Is he a spy?”

“I don’t know,” Bull admitted.

“You don’t _know_?” teased Lavellan, in earnest now.

“I thought not.”

“But?”

“I don’t know. He’s – he’s good at noticing.”

“Noticing?”

“Faces. The Game. Whatever you call it.”

“Oh,” said Lavellan glumly. “The Game.”

Lavellan was a poor player of the Game. Being raised among an isolate clan of people meant she was very, very good at picking up on moods of her advisors and Inner Circle. In her small group of people, she noticed the patterns, rhythms, and moods of those she knew well. She would always decide to make camp early if she sensed one of the group’s distress or swing by with a drink when they were lonely. But it also meant she was blind to moods of people she didn’t know. At the Winter Palace she had made no real friends, blundering through most of the social situations in a way that had Josephine cringing over the balustrade of the dance floor.

Thankfully, Cullen was just as socially inept. Desperate to leave the ball, they had declined to dance together after the entire crowning fiasco. Instead, they had left to find something greasy to eat at a street vendor and sat in a lover’s alcove kicking their feet out, good-naturedly complaining.

“He is a noble,” said Lavellan after a moment. “If that has anything to do with it.”

“I think it has everything to do with it. He’s been born into noticing and playing a role.”

“Dorian?” Lavellan wrinkled her nose. She and the mage got on fairly well, in their limited interactions. “He’s so – so – “

“Yeah,” said the Iron Bull, allowing a satisfied little smile. “He is. But I can’t tell if that’s a role too, or just how he is.”

“I don’t know,” said Lavellan irritably.

“What do you think about asking him to hike out with us?”

“What?”

“Hike out with us. I’ll go, to keep an eye on you. Between us, you can bring him and Vivienne, and she can watch him.”

“And if we find a locked trunk?” teased Lavellan.

“I’ll smash it open.” Bull shrugged.

“Hmm,” said Lavellan.

* * *

“I hate this idea.”

Dorian pretended not to hear the Commander talking loudly to the Inquisitor. It didn’t take two eyes to see they were –

“It’s only for a week,” said Lavellan patiently. She was stuffing an extra cloak into a pack as they climbed into the cart that would take them to the Hinterlands. “And I know how to live in the wilderness.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Dorian said he’d be able to recognize the Venatori mages.”

“I _hate_ this idea,” Cullen repeated fiercely.

Lavellan sighed and looked up, her fingers still in her pack. “Cullen, it’s the Hinterlands. We’ve been out a dozen times. Maybe more. I know the terrain. I can stop to resupply in Redcliffe.”

Cullen looked mulish and Dorian quickly looked into his own pack, brand new, pretending to search for something when he felt eyes on him.

“We won’t go by there,” Lavellan was saying, very softly. “I promise. Not even close. Not even to Lake Calenhad.”

“What about if Vivienne-“ Cullen began, faltering.

“She promised she wouldn’t make us. Don’t worry,” Lavellan said again. “And I’ve got Bull with me. You’ve sparred with him. Do you honestly think anything out there has a chance?”

“There are bears,” Cullen said mulishly, but his voice was defeated. He staggered when the qunari landed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Ah, don’t worry,” said the Iron Bull, his face wreathed in smiles. “I could take a bear. With my _bare_ hands. Get it?”

Dorian suppressed a smile, unsuccessfully, and Cullen sighed very deeply. It coincided, quite by accident, with Vivienne, who looked annoyed.

Dorian failed to suppress a second smile when Vivienne scowled at him.

“Be safe,” Cullen said, then hesitated.

Lavellan did not hesitate. As the cart lurched forward, she grabbed his face in both her hands and kissed him. Dorian saw very little of the Commander as he was pulled away, but his ears were bright red.

Lavellan sat back in the car, very satisfied with herself, and snickered at Vivienne’s pained expression.

“The Inquisitor should not –“ Vivienne began.

“Ah,” said Lavellan, interrupting. “Well.”

Vivienne cut her eyes at Dorian, who raised his eyebrows to say _I’m not getting into it._

“Are you a spy?” the Iron Bull asked suddenly.

Dorian looked at Vivienne, his mouth slightly open. Why would _Vivienne_ –

Vivienne and Lavellan were making faces at the Iron Bull and belatedly Dorian realized _oh._ Me.

“Uh,” he said brilliantly. “No.”

“Okay,” said the Iron Bull, settling back into the cart. “Just wanted to check. You're a vint. Can't blame a guy for worrying.”

"I'm also a mage," Dorian said crisply. "Would you prefer me bound and leashed?"

The Iron Bull smiled. "I'd buy you dinner first."

"Hopefully before you sewed my mouth shut."

"Depends how much you keep yapping."

"Bull!" Lavellan interrupted. She gestured wildly at Dorian. "Spy? Or no spy?"

“Who would I be a spy for?” asked Dorian, still slightly bewildered.

“The Venatori, presumably,” said Vivienne, recovering herself. She gave a small shoulder jerk to indicate an apology. So she had thought so as well.

“I’m not,” said Dorian again. “For them to have traveled all the way here – to Ferelden – it would take weeks, if not months.”

“Or one trip through a mirror,” said Lavellan, her voice steady.

“What?”

“If you set it up to move troops-“

“Oh.” Dorian realized he should have seen this coming. One month in and everyone too nice to a fault.

The cart was silent a while as it rattled down the road, and Dorian looked up from the cart bed to find three people judging his reactions. He cursed his open face and glanced at the scenery, of which rocks featured predominantly.

“What were you doing?” Vivienne asked suddenly.

“What?”

“When you went through the mirror.”

Dorian made a face, a non-committal noise in his throat, but it was clear they were all willing to wait him out, for however many days it took to get to the Hinterlands.

“I was hiding.”

“You were _hiding_.” This was the Iron Bull, and he was watching Dorian with more scrutiny than he usually deigned to show. Dorian could tell he watched everything. The quick flick of his light blue eye on every exit, on every window. The way his fingers tensed when people stood, or reached for something. But always Bull had a mug of beer, or was telling a loud, raucous story. He observed those things piecemeal, just as he observed reactions piecemeal, sometimes throwing in a shockingly outrageous twist – lascivious or particularly bloody – to judge by.

“Yes.” Dorian tried not to point out the unfairness of this questioning, or how people had looked at him his first few days when he asked what, exactly, the Inquisition was inquiring into. What it meant for Lavellan to be the Herald of Andraste. She had a mark on her face, even if Solas didn’t. _Vallaslin_ , his brain reminded him.

“What were you hiding from?” asked Lavellan, prompting him. Her vallaslin was violet, and started at her eyebrow down one eye to her cheek.

“Everybody.”

“Dorian,” Vivienne said impatiently.

Dorian breathed in slowly, trying to work out the least awful way to explain something.

“I was hiding from our Seneschal. And in turn from my father.”

Lavellan laughed, but quickly stopped when neither Bull nor Vivienne did. She glanced back at Dorian. “Why?”

“There was a meeting I was eager to avoid. And a very convenient supply closet.”

“And the mirror was just – _in there_?” Vivienne’s voice could have cut glass itself.

“Yes,” said Dorian irritably. “Under a tarp, and under a table against it.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why was it there? I don’t know. I assume it was one of my father’s casting implements.”

“What?”

“It was an alchemical supply closet. There’s all sorts of magical odds and ends in those.”

“ _Those?”_ asked Vivienne, her voice slightly faint.

Dorian sighed. Southerners and their magic were so tied up in abstinence and abnegation, the idea of people owning closets full of their own casting supplies was likely a luxury not yet imagined.

“Yes. Well. I hid in one. I backed into the mirror. Came through.” _Close enough._ "Now I get to be in this beautiful countryside with you in a cart!" He ended, very sarcastically.

Vivienne smiled, which made Dorian nervous. She didn't smile unless for performance. "It's rather amusing, Dorian."

Dorian smiled back, all teeth. "Your outfit's enteraining, I'll give you that."

Vivienne smoothed her skintight leggings with lingering fingers. "The way you sneer at "southerners," pretending to be a shark from a land of sharks. But you are not a shark and never will be, darling. They knew it, just as you do."

Dorian actually smiled this time, pleased at the compliment. He shrugged. "Yes. That's just what my Father thinks. You know, I could have pretended. Wore fancy clothes, convinced everyone I'm something I'm not. Then I could take a position at court, whore myself out, and desperately hope no one realizes what a fraud I am."

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. "Such snapping for a fish without teeth."

Lavellan, looking slightly irritated at the disharmony, snapped: "You should put on a show, charge for admission."

The Iron Bull tipped the butt of his greataxe towards them. "I'd see it."

Vivienne arched an eyebrow. "My dear Inquisitor, whatever is the issue? We are having a perfectly civil conversation."

Dorian nodded, likewise surprised. "It's true. I've heard worse from our gardener back home."

Lavellan looked like she was ready to say something else, but Iron Bull brightly took out a flask.

“How about a drinking song. Have you heard how many nugs squeal down under?”

* * *

“And it’s ninety nugs under her jugs, and up his ass past this lass, tongue and tail are in the pail, and squealing down they streamed and wailed down under the Thornberry bush. And ninety-one, nugs she found, found in the deep roads of her –“

“That’s enough,” said Vivienne hastily. “We’re here.”

The Iron Bull grinned at her, but she only stepped wearily down and made for the tents the scouts had erected for them.

“Well done,” said Lavellan tiredly, patting Bull’s arm. “That’s true stamina.”

“Ain’t seen nothing yet, boss.”

“Too tired, Bull, try it on Dorian.”

“If he’ll have me.”

Dorian was mid-yawn, his arms behind his head and shirt riding up. He made a noncommittal noise and blinked sleepily. He hopped down stiff from the cart, leaning from leg to leg to pull the cramps out.

“Girls tent,” Lavellan called, taking the much larger of the two tents.

“No fair,” Bull protested. “You know I rip the smaller ones.”

Lavellan pulled a sad face, then made a rude gesture that had Bull and Dorian both cracking reluctant smiles.

“Tough,” she said. “I’m taking a nap before dinner.”

Vivienne followed her into the tent without a word.

The Iron Bull glanced sidelong at Dorian. It said a lot for Vivienne to leave him unsupervised but for Bull. Bull wasn’t vain enough to think it was anything _he_ could do. Dorian was earning the trust, a bit at a time.

“If you really thought I was a spy, why would you ask me that?”

“To see if you’d lie.”

“But if I was a spy, of course I’d lie.”

“Yeah, but I’d know.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Dorian smiled like Bull was joking, but his smile faded. “You wouldn’t.”

The Iron Bull shrugged modestly. “I do okay.”

“Am I lying now?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Fuck. Aren’t _you_ a spy? Ben Hassrath, right? An actual Quanri spy?

“Yeah.”

“Wait, aren’t you supposed to lie?”

“Oh yeah. I’m deep in cover.”

Dorian blinked at him, and Bull took pity.

“Here. We can make a game of it, if you want.”

“What?”

“The lie thing. I know you want to play.”

“Do I?”

The Iron Bull studied Dorian. He was tired from the journey, but also a little wistful. Bored enough to play a game with the a friendly face.

“Sure.”

Dorian shrugged, settling himself by the fire. “Fine.”

Bull settled next to him and smiled angelically.

“Tell me about yourself. Sprinkle in the lies and I’ll call you on them.”

* * *

“Lie.”

“Fuck!”

The Iron Bull smiled smugly and Dorian ran fingers through his hair. He was trying not to show just _how_ frustrated he was, but he glanced sidelong at the Iron Bull to find him tasting something on his tongue.

The Iron Bull’s expression was angelic. “How am I doing?”

“Very well,” said Dorian irritably.

“Did I miss any?”

“A few,” said Dorian modestly. This was only marginally true. Bull had missed exactly one.

The Iron Bull smiled to himself, and Dorian scrubbed a hand over his forehead.

“Bull’s played this game with me,” Lavellan said from across the fire. They were scraping unappetizing beans off tin plates. Lavellan ate quickly and neatly with nothing but her fingers. She also didn’t disdain seconds, though Vivienne looked sidelong at her, pained.

“You do okay, boss.”

“I just don’t lie to you,” she shrugged.

The Iron Bull’s smile widened and suddenly Dorian felt something in his stomach flip.

_No._

No he _couldn’t_.

That would be absurd.

Dorian concentrated on his plate of beans and carefully picked around the fatty lumps of mystery meat.

“I will not,” said Vivienne into the silence.

Dorian looked up. The Iron Bull was staring at her intently, one eyebrow raised over the eyepatch.

He smiled again, and this time Dorian’s stomach was even quicker to respond.

 _Hush_. He was never very patient with himself.

“You want me to guess?” asked the Iron Bull, his voice suddenly smoky.

“Do you want to keep your remaining eye?” Vivienne returned calmly.

Everyone laughed, and Bull settled back, leaning into the log next to Dorian. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but his skin gave off a glow of heat in the mild evening.

Dorian cautiously relaxed as Lavellan began a story about one of the hunters in her clan, a poor idiot boy who was unlucky in love. To Dorian’s surprise, Lavellan was casual about him being interested in men.

He could tell the Iron Bull was sneaking glances at him from the corner of his good eye. If Dorian hadn’t waved, made faces, or tested in a dozen other ways if Bull could really see out of his eyepatch, he wouldn’t have put it past the qunari to pretend he was blind in the other to his advantage.

He disliked that he was so obvious about his interest – and needing to cover it up – that the Iron Bull had noticed.

The evening turned brisk. Shivering, due mainly to her thin layers of skintight robes with pieces cut out, Vivienne excused herself first.

The scouts were ranged in the trees around the camp, and Dorian found himself telling a small, inconsequential story about a pet fish he had kept for a friend – and promptly killed and replaced. It was strangely … _warm …_ to be here. To be in the wilderness next to the drowsy heat of the Iron Bull, watching Lavellan’s face light up as she laughed. To her, this was home, far more than any castle. The small community around a fire.

Dorian felt both pleased and overwhelmed to be so included, but as neither Bull nor Lavellan seemed wont to leave, he drifted off to the tent next.

Dorian lay in his bedroll and shivered. His surroundings were unfamiliar, and the low murmur of voices kept him more awake as he strained to listen. Dorian only fell asleep when Iron Bull settled down beside him.

* * *

“Dorian?”

The Iron Bull smiled as he said his named again. Dorian snored ferociously.

“Dorian!”

“W-what?” the word started with a wet snrking sound and Dorian sat up, knuckling an eye.

“Time to get going.”

“What? Oh, yes. Of course.”

He was very sleepy eyed, and the Iron Bull looked him over critically.

“Are you going to fall back asleep if I duck out of here?”

“What? No, of course not,” mumbled Dorian. His hair was mussed and half curling with sweat. His head drooped on his shoulders, which it never did when he was awake. The Iron Bull wasn’t sure if he had ever seen someone hold their shoulders so stiffly.

“Okay,” said Bull. “If you say so.”

“’f course.”

Bull ducked out of the tent not bothering to hide his smile.

Vivienne was already sitting pristine in all white, prodding a kettle with one finger to set it boiling for tea. “And where is Lord Dorian?” she asked archly.

“He says he’s getting up.”

The snores betrayed him almost at once.

Lavellan started snickering. She was wiping down her greatsword with a soft cloth. The Iron Bull liked to see a woman who knew how to care for her weapon.

“Dorian!” Vivienne barked, and the snores stopped again.

There was some rustling and a very reluctant head peered bleary-eyed from the tent flap. “I’m up,” he grouched. Then, peering at the grey sky. “Good Bride of the Maker, what time is it?”

“Dawn,” said Vivienne calmly.

“Fuck,” Dorian hissed and his head withdrew.

“Dorian!” Vivienne snapped again, and this time only a hand stuck out between the flaps making a rude gesture.

The Iron Bull kept an eye on Dorian as they hiked. He was definitely no morning person. He stumbled over divots and blinked sleepily at track marks. He was so poor at talking, the others soon left him to it as they hiked with their own thoughts, making a few remarks here or there.

“Heads up,” said Dorian, his voice suddenly aristocratic and crystal clear. “Venatori ahead.”

The others turned to look down the road and could see shapes moving around a makeshift camp.

“How can you tell?” asked Lavellan.

Dorian didn’t answer her.

 _He knows them_ , the Iron Bull realized. Then, fleetingly, _poor bastard._

The four of them crept forward, but at a certain range there was no hiding as the mages scrambled for their staffs and began flinging spells at them. The icy sharp scent of Vivienne’s magic warned Bull of the blizzard even as it sleeted past him, the icicles sharp tiny daggers.

The Iron Bull had never seen Dorian fight before. His first weeks in Skyhold had been spent in books, in the library, even playing chess with a reluctant Cullen. Bull had his private ideas why Cullen might not want to spend time with Dorian, and being a possible blood mage was only one of them.

So the Iron Bull was thoroughly unprepared for the ferocity of Dorian’s magic.

An explosion went off, a fire mine beneath the grass. The three remaining Venatori were thrown haphazardly into the air, but not before three perfect bolts of lightning pierced each through the chest, so fast and purple bright that the forking lightning passed through them straight into the ground, scorching the brown grass black.

The bodies hit the earth with dull thuds.

The rest of the party turned to look at Dorian, who was leaning on his staff, breathing hard.

“Well done,” said Vivienne coolly. This was radically high praise from the Enchanter, and Bull exchanged a glance with Lavellan. She nodded. She could also tell Vivienne was impressed.

Dorian gulped, nodded, and straightened. “We should move on.”

“Hang on,” the Iron Bull said. “I’ll look through their pockets.”

He was aware that Dorian had wandered off while he turned the bodies over and searched them. Lavellan was also looting their camp for any useful odds and ends.

“Here, what’s this?” she asked Vivienne, who had sunk onto a crate.

Vivienne took the magical artifacts and began examining rings and amulets while Bull finished up his work. There weren’t even any throats to cut. There had been five of them, but the three Dorian had killed were stone dead and stiff, their faces still frozen in expressions of surprise.

Dorian rejoined the camp looking sweaty and pale, and the Iron Bull caught a whiff of something sour. So he had been sick then. It came clear in a rush: _He’s never killed anyone before_.

Bull had the sense Dorian wouldn’t like to know he was very good at it. Efficient.

“Anything?” Dorian asked, with something like his usual self.

All three of them glanced at him, then away, and he flushed up.

“Nah,” said Bull, taking pity on him. He clapped a hand to Dorian’s shoulder, and the other man staggered badly, not quite steady on his feet. Bull withdrew his hand with a cheeky smile, but not before he had felt even through layers of clothes the iron in Dorian’s hunched shoulders.

“Come on,” Bull said. “Let’s see if we can’t spend the night on Dennett’s farm.”

* * *

Dorian turned in the hay, and ignored the rustling.

He had never slept in a barn before, and all his previous camping excursions had been on trips with friends. Friends, and servants to take care of all the privations.

He realized he was the only one who was awake. Even Vivienne, who would have impressed the magisterium with both her academic knowledge of magic and her casual brutality, was sleeping as quietly as Andraste’s spirit. She was curled up in her blanket on her side, her hands pillowed beneath her shaved head. She was wearing Lavellan’s spare cloak so her skin didn’t scratch against the hay. She was the picture of serenity, and Dorian was utterly disgusted with himself that he was this soft.

Lavellan, no question about it, was at home. She had shirked her boots by the hayloft stairs and tunneled into the pile of hay with her bedroll and a waterskin. She had spent time reading before bed and fallen asleep with the book on her chest until Dorian quietly dimmed the magelight he had conjured for her.

The Iron Bull wasn’t even sleeping in the hay that was currently poking all over Dorian’s skin. The qunari had settled himself on the dusty planking across the mouth of the ladder-like stairs so that no one could come at them unawares.

Dorian turned over again, wishing hay wasn’t so damn _prickly._

Damn it, why had it been them? He had known all five: Thom, Vero, Pynna, Ellis, and Lexan. Thom had just turned twenty. He tried not to think of the way Thom’s face had widened in shock when his feet when out from under him, or the way Vero’s long black hair had jerked suddenly when the bolt went through her back. They had undoubtedly killed innocent civilians in their march from Tevinter: the camp was full of things they had lifted from houses, raided or killed for. But it was one thing to hate them, and another to –

To –

Dorian blinked in the dark, and his blurred vision cleared. Two hot spots on his cheeks dripped to the collar of his robes and were gone.

He hated it here.

He realized it with something like sinking in his gut. He had tried, hadn’t he? For a month he had been polite. He had taken the clothes offered him. He had eaten the bland unsalted food. He had smiled and nodded and played nice.

_Are you a spy?_

Wouldn’t it have been better if he was? At least then he’d have some reason to – to _be_ here. As it was, though he admired the Inquisition for what they were doing and had even heard the whispered stories about Haven and Lavellan’s trek through the snow, Dorian didn’t belong here.

He wasn’t a _hero_.

That was it. After killing his classmates, Vivienne and the Inquisitor had praised him for his quick thinking. Vivienne had even admired his multi-spell weave. In any other circumstance, Dorian might have preened. However, he had hardly remembered the rest of the day.

He did notice that the Iron Bull had said nothing.

“Can’t sleep?”

The whisper startled Dorian so badly he flinched in the straw, rustling it. Irritated that he could so easily betray himself, he sat up. The Iron Bull was up on an elbow.

“Sorry,” he whispered back.

“Come here,” Bull demanded. He demanded a lot; Dorian could tell.

Too tired to protest, Dorian staggered out of his hay and carefully stepped to the railing.

"Sit.”

Dorian sat, copying the Iron Bull and swinging his legs to dangle over the edge of the hayloft, holding onto the rough slats of the railing in his hands. Almost without meaning to, Dorian tipped his forehead into one of the boards and closed his eyes.

The Iron Bull said nothing.

Dorian let the silence stretch for a long time before he breathed out a blustery sigh. The qunari was far more patient than he was.

“I’ve never –“ he began.

“I know.”

He nodded. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

Dorian paused. How to say what he meant? _Sorry for being obvious about it. Sorry for being an inconvenience. Sorry for not being able to sleep on campaign. For being a useless princeling. For slowing everyone down. For being in the way. For not being more helpful. For blundering into this mess. For being another thing to worry about. For being another thing to clean up._

“I didn’t mean to keep you up,” he said at last, the paltriest of his apologies.

“It’s fine,” said the Iron Bull. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Have you?”

“Yeah.”

“Very well. Talk then.”

“How are you handling it?”

“Handling what?”

The Iron Bull also rested his forehead against the slats of the wood, quietly waiting for Dorian to continue. They both stared at the floor of the barn; listened to the quiet shuffling of the few horses left on the farm.

“Not very well,” Dorian admitted at last.

Another awful, stretching silence. He waited for Bull to offer to – to do something – to –

“Yeah,” said Iron Bull, surprising a reluctant smile from Dorian. “I figured.”

“That obvious?”

“To me.”

“Oh, of course. Too you,” mocked Dorian lightly.

The Iron Bull surprised him. He unwrapped one of his large, very warm hands and laid it on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian flinched.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized at once.

“Head shy?” guessed Bull, with something dark in his voice.

Dorian couldn’t look away from the not-question in his blue eye. Instead, he nodded shortly.

The Iron Bull’s hand was spanning one of Dorian’s shoulders and collarbones, drifting to rest on the back of his neck, warm and solid. It felt like an anchor, and Dorian realized all at once he had been spinning in his own head, the world whirling past him until now.

“Does it get easier?” he asked at last.

This provoked a long silence from Bull, and Dorian shifted his forehead, still pressed to the wooden slat, to glance sidelong.

The Iron Bull heaved a sigh. “I don’t know what’s worse,” he said slowly. “Telling you it doesn’t, or that it actually does.”

Dorian turned his eyes back towards the ground. “That is worse,” he said softly.

“Makes you want to go home, huh?” The Iron Bull sometimes did this: phrased accurate guesses about peoples’ moods as open-ended questions.

To both their surprises, Dorian thought, he shook his head. “No,” he said honestly. “It doesn’t.”

* * *

“I don’t think he’s a spy,” the Iron Bull said to Lavellan as they sharpened their weapons on whetstones. He pulled the stone along the curved edge of his greataxe. Lavellan had found a wicked two bladed greatsword with serrated edges, like an oversized hunting knife.

“Oh really?” teased Lavellan. She was carefully pumicing between the teeth.

“No, but he might be running from something.”

The Inquisitor paused, frowning. Her legs were so slim as to almost be bow-legged, and the greatsword rested on one thigh.

The Iron Bull pulled thoughts away of what her thighs looked like uncovered. Cullen had fair claim, and just because he thought she was lovely – hell, he had to be careful not to make expressions around Vivienne.

“What makes you say that?”

“I asked if he wanted to go home, and he doesn’t.”

“Maybe he’s having fun,” shrugged Lavellan. “It has been a particularly good trip.” They were on their way back to Skyhold the next day, and the autumnal weather was still mild, only crisp at night and their tents warm with body heat.

“Boss, come on,” said Iron Bull skeptically. “Right now Dorian is learning how to wash in a _river._ A river! A guy like that.”

“A guy like what?” asked Lavellan interestedly, and Iron Bull cursed his loose tongue around her. He sometimes forgot her perception kicked in around those she knew well.

“He’s a lordling,” Bull grunted, as if it was no concern of his. As if he hadn’t seen the way Dorian’s back flexed under the thin, almost translucent fabric of his undershirt. The Iron Bull was a sucker for a man’s back, especially when he could press it down with one hand – hold the hip with the –

“Bull,” said Lavellan, blowing out a breath.

The Iron Bull hunched up defensively, sure he was found out.

“Go easy on him, okay? Honestly, I’m glad we took Vivienne, if not just to watch him. Imagine if all of us were roughnecks and he was a sore ear.”

“A sore _ear?_ ” asked Bull.

Lavellan flicked one of her ears irritably. “You know what I mean. Be gentle with him.”

Oh, Bull _would._ If he even had the breath of a chance, caught the whiff of Dorian even thinking of –

“That was perfectly beastly,” said Dorian in crisp, carrying tones as he came back to camp. His skin was still shining wet under his clothes, and he was prickled up all over in goosebumps.

Vivienne was running magically bespelled hands over her own clothes, sweeping out stains and drops of water. She practically shimmered in a heat wave.

Dorian huddled next to her, his brown eyes begging.

“Oh, very well,” said Vivienne waspishly, but everyone present knew her waspishness covered humor. She laid her hands on Dorian’s chest, and he sucked in a huge breath that made Bull fumble the long stroke of his whetstone. He carefully packed it up as if that had been his intention all along, and not watching from under one eyebrow as Dorian’s hair fluffed up dry, and he wiped sweat and water from beneath both his eyes. He looked tired.

“The cart should get here in an hour or two,” said Lavellan, carefully stowing her own whetstone. “If you want to rest.”

Dorian closed his eyes while Bull watched. His black eyelashes were usually curled; a trait Bull had never seen outside of Tevinter. Now they were wet and thickly clumped against his cheeks until he opened them.

“Bless you,” he said with his voice choked with faux emotion. He gestured around expanisvely at the brown grass of the Hinterlands. "The Fereldan heartland. It's a brave new world, Dorian Pavus."

“Go dry yourself off, then,” Vivienne said coldly in response to his grandstanding. She pulled her hands away, shaking them like she had deigned to pet a Mabari.

Dorian smiled at her, then headed for the small tent.

The Iron Bull, rumbling some excuse in the back of his throat, set his greataxe down and carefully folded up the whetstone, small knives, and polishing cloth in their carrying sack. He ducked into the smaller tent one horn at a time and then paused, his mouth pressed together at the intrusion.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder. “You can come in,” he said. He seemed unperturbed to find the Iron Bull frozen on the doorstep. He had stripped to the waist and was toweling himself off with a spare shirt. His back was rigid with tension and goosebumps.

“Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair,” Bull said easily, quickly stowing the kit in his pack.

“Oh, it’s fine. I think I’m going to try to recover some warmth in my bedroll. That river was fucking freezing. Does the cold not bother any of you? Truly?”

The Iron Bull laughed and ducked back out of the tent flaps. He felt if he had been anyone else, he would have blushed.

* * *

Dorian pulled on the shirt he had been clenching in white-knuckled hands. The Iron Bull moved so softly Dorian hadn’t even heard him coming into the tent. _Thank the Maker_ , Dorian reflected fervently, bundling himself into his bedroll. He had planned to warm the tent himself…under the covers, so to speak.

How mortifying if Bull had walked in _then._

He hoped his slow toweling had gone unnoticed, the careful tracing of his chest, dipping down towards the waist of his pants.

Dorian forced his thoughts away. There was no hope for that _now._ Instead he slept, and dreamed, and was glad upon waking he was still alone.

“What?” he called back, realizing someone had said his name. His speech was slurred. He was so tired.

“Come on,” the Inquisitor laughed. “The cart is here.”

Dorian staggered out, raising a grateful hand to the scouts staying behind with the tents. The air was cold on his sleep-warmed skin. He shivered.

“Come here,” said the Iron Bull, gesturing at the bench next to him.

Dorian nodded and climbed in. He wrapped himself in one of the horse blankets from the bottom of the cart.

“So cold?” teased Bull.

Dorian realized he had closed his eyes and jerked them open. He nodded. “Sorry,” he added, “Still half asleep.”

Vivienne was also looking heavy lidded. She sat wrapped in furs and blinking very slowly.

"Vivienne," yawned Dorian widely.

"Yes?" She was too glassy-eyed to come up with a nominally scathing title.

"You know, we can continue this dance forever, if you wish."

Vivienne struggled to free an arm from the furs and wiped her face, looking pleased at the comforting banter. "Presuming both of us are capable," she said, in a tone that clearly suggested he was not.

"What are you on about?" Bull asked.

"Oh," said Dorian, leaning into Bull. "I mock Orlesian frippery and nonsense, Vivienne mocks Tevinter decadence and tyranny. There is, however, something far more important we should remember."

Vivienne, hiding a yawn behind a hand, looked over. "Just what might that be?"

"At least we're not Antivan."

"Quite right," said Vivienne. "Thank the Maker."

“Can I?” asked Bull.

Vivienne glanced at him, confused, and then made a sort of hiss as Bull dragged her under one of his arms, the other going around Dorian.

Vivienne held herself stiffly, but Bull’s body heat worked against Dorian’s willpower. He didn’t even feel embarrassed when he dropped off to sleep, his face warm against Bull’s wide arm.

* * *

One hand on his chest, and the Iron Bull watched as Dorian levered himself to sitting, blinking up at the stars overhead.

“Still a few hours out,” rumbled Bull quietly.

Dorian nodded, scrubbing at his face.

“How’d you like your first excursion?”

Dorian’s eyes were wide pits in the dark. Iron Bull wanted to lean in and stare into them, but Vivienne and Lavellan were at their feet, sleeping in the bed of the cart as it plodded meticulously back to Skyhold.

“It was uh- “ Dorian cleared his throat and nodded. “Good. It was good.”

“I don’t think you’re a spy.”

“Oh,” and Dorian’s voice threaded with amused warmth. “Really?”

“Nah. I think you’d be a terrible spy.”

“I’m wounded.”

“Okay, fine, you’d be okay, if we were in a court.”

“Yes, I am sorry about that.” Dorian seemed unusually hesitant. “I’m not very…outdoorsy.”

“Not yet,” said the Iron Bull cheerfully. “I’m sure we can get you there.”

Dorian huffed a laugh through his nostrils. “I’m not sure I want to be. Cold rivers and sleeping in carts? Maker, I’m stiff.”

“ _Are_ you now?”

“Ha,” said Dorian drolly, but palmed at his neck. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Years of practice,” said Bull cheerfully, letting the flirtation go. If Dorian wasn’t interested, he certainly wouldn’t press it. Dorian was clever enough to know when he was being flirted with.

“Well I’m cold and sore.”

“I could warm you up.”

“You are,” Dorian said dryly. “And you can stop that.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I don’t mind that.” Dorian sounded shy in the darkness, and Bull felt himself grinning. Dorian bumped shoulders with Bull. “Stop being so smug.”

The Iron Bull tried to stop grinning. By Dorian’s withering eyebrows, it didn’t work.

“I just mean, it’s only us. And it’s Maker knows what time of the morning.”

“Around three or half past, I’d put it.”

“Yes, so you don’t have to – “

“Sorry,” Bull said again.

“Besides,” said Dorian, his voice light. “You wouldn’t want.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe in daylight. I might say of course.”

“But now?”

“It’s really more trouble than its worth.”

“Because I’m qunari?”

“Because I’m from Tevinter.”

"You've been to Minrathous, right?"

If Dorian was stumped by the non sequitur he didn't show it. He only laughed in the dark. "Of course. I'm not a plebian."

"You ever been to that place in the Vivazzi Plaza? With the big, cracked bell hanging off the roof?"

"With the dancers, yes. You're making me homesick."

The Iron Bull rumbled something between a laugh and an apology. "But not homesick enough to go home?"

"Well, there are certain things I have to do.”

“What things?”

“Be an heir, for one.” Dorian blew out a long breath. “Even a reluctant one.”

“Must be tough,” said Bull, rather sarcastically.

“Not the day to day,” conceded Dorian.

“But?”

“But what?”

“You said the day to day isn’t tough, but –“

The Iron Bull could only see glimmers of Dorian’s expression. The moon was only a very small crescent, like a thumbnail. But Dorian had frozen, despite the rattling cart.

“You’re very clever,” he said, almost too softly for Bull to catch.

The Iron Bull waited. It was amazing what people would do or say if you only out waited them. He was very patient.

Eventually, after actual minutes of silence, Dorian brought his head down from regarding the stars, turning blindly towards the Iron Bull.

“There are certain expectations of a magister’s son,” he said quietly. “That I refused to fulfill.”

“And?”

“And my father didn’t like that.”

The Iron Bull was silent. He understood – as Dorian did – the problem with being head shy. Something coming at your head still made you flinch, even years later.

“So you were hiding?”

Dorian rubbed his forehead again, and even though Bull waited for an answer, he could tell this was one Dorian wouldn’t give up. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” the Iron Bull offered at last. “I won’t – “

“Don’t _never_ – “ Dorian blurted at the same time.

“Yeah?”

“I mean…” Dorian smiled half-heartedly. “What do I mean?”

“That I should mean it.” The Iron Bull felt his skin prickle up all over at Dorian’s appraising stare. He had thrown the guess out to surprise a reaction out of Dorian, but he thought it might have backfired. That it said more about himself.

“I’m cold,” said Dorian instead, and Bull willingly lifted an arm.

Dorian pillowed himself back against Bull’s chest and closed his eyes.

“Your heartbeat is very strong,” he murmured sleepily. “Is it always?”

The Iron Bull huffed a laugh. “Yeah,” he said, lying out his ass. “I run hot. Just means my heart goes faster than most people’s.”

“Oh,” said Dorian sleepily. “That’s nice.”

The Iron Bull watched him fall asleep, hearing his own suddenly loud heartbeat pounding in his ears.

* * *

“Everyone?” Dorian asked skeptically.

“Yep,” said Sera, throwing another fistful of bread over the side of the roof. They were sitting outside her window, dangling their legs over the ledge as she showered patrons of the Rest with day-old bread. The birds were swooping after it, scaring people.

“Not _everyone._ ”

“Well, not me.”

“ _Everyone_?” Dorian asked again.

Sera shrugged. “He knows I don’t deal with all….” She made a flapping, dangling gesture that made Dorian sigh. “All that bit. But yep. Everyone. He likes everyone. And everyone likes him.”

“Even you?” teased Dorian.

“He’s very big,” said Sera, her eyes unfocusing. “Makes you think about…. _things.”_ She snorted and then threw another handful of crumbs.

“Give me that,” said Dorian, snatching some of the bread. Then, seeing her smirk, he threw it at her. “It does not! I do – you know what I mean!”

Sera laughed. "And to think, I thought you were fat with it."

"Me?" Dorian raised an eyebrow. "Are you referring to...?" He copied her earlier hand gesture and she threw breat in his face.

"I thought you slept on silk while gold shits down all over you! Aren't you rich?"

"I left all that behind." He paused, leaning over the edge of the roof, trying for Scout Harding's red hair from above. He glanced sidelong at Sera. "Although I do miss the gold-shitting from time to time."

Sera grinned widely. "You really left it, huh? Knew you weren't all bad."

"Yes," said Dorian dryly. "I'm quite the altruist."

Sera wrinkled her nose. “You’re a piss poor liar.”

“So Bull tells me.”

“Does he now?” Sera asked keenly. “You must really interest him then. He doesn’t usually bother to show off.”

“Show off?”

“Well he can see a lot, you know, even with the one eye. He usually keeps it to himself.”

“Usually?”

“Sometimes,” said Sera archly, scattering both her hands wide and letting the rest of the crumbs fall on top of Cassandra’s dark hair, “he likes to show off.”

There was the shrieking of Leliana’s black birds, and Cassandra yelled furiously.

Sera waggled her eyebrows at Dorian as she swung her leg up over the edge, and started to run.

* * *

“Are you sure?” Cullen asked.

The Iron Bull grunted, taking the swing full on an arm bracer. Cullen would have broken the arm of a smaller man.

“Yeah,” he managed. Fuck but that would bruise bad. “I’m sure.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I mean, what are you – Ferelden?”

Cullen was pink-faced and sweating as he rushed Bull, and Bull knew it was a cheap shot.

“How do I – “ he grunted, wrestling with Cullen hand to hand. Bull’s strength had a telling advantage, but Cullen was doing fairly well. “Know _you_ aren’t a spy?”

With a great crashing swing, he sent the commander tumbling into the dirt. There were some cheers from those watching the sparring, and Cullen panted, still sitting where he had been planted.

Bull had to wrench his mind away from the way Cullen was flushed and panting, looking up at him. Lavellan was lucky.

“Fair enough,” Cullen said, holding out his hand to be pulled up. He came wincingly to his feet, and Bull grunted. His arm fucking _hurt._

“Good bout,” Bull managed after a minute.

“Yeah,” Cullen panted, wiping the back of his neck with a gloved hand. He caught Bull looking. “What?”

“Nothing,” grunted Bull. “Just checking if you’re okay.” He was checking _something._ He would need to find entertainment tonight. It was frankly getting ridiculous because he was waiting for something that wouldn’t happen.

A girl, then. They were very different. His mind wouldn’t…wander.

He realized guiltily Cullen had been speaking and sharpened his focus.

“-but I don’t know.”

The Iron Bull had missed _all_ of that.

“I mean, pretty sure you do know,” he said. A vague generalization that usually did the trick.

Cullen looked frustrated, but wiped his face and nodded. He glanced up at Bull and clapped a hand to his arm. “Yeah. I guess. Shit. But thanks.”

“No problem,” Bull said, and winced privately. He really hoped whatever Cullen was going to do wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

* * *

“Oh,” Dorian managed to bite the end of the word off so his voice didn’t squeak.

The Iron Bull was grimacing.

“Sorry,” said Dorian, who, bored alone in his room that evening, had been wandering past the alcoves outside the Herald’s Rest. He had half a mind to go up in the stables, to sit and read in the hayloft, unconsciously copying Lavellan.

It would be better if he wasn’t _such_ the princeling. At the very least he could practice sitting in hay.

“Sorry,” he said again.

The Iron Bull had turned his face away, though Dorian didn’t think he was shy. He had been shamelessly rutting into a girl from behind, pressed hard to the stone wall, one of her legs bent up around his knee.

Dorian quickly about-faced and walked back the way he came. There was no going to the stables now, so close to where he could hear –

Fuck.

It was worse now that he _knew_ what Bull sounded like. He had imagined it, certainly, but to hear –

Ugh.

Dorian found his room and shut the door behind him.

He knew, even as he cursed himself, what he would be doing as soon as he shrugged out of his clothes.

He shivered as he changed for bed. He was achingly hard, and the first grasp of himself slick with lotion had him groaning into the pillow.

He was thirty-six, for fuck’s sake, but he felt sixteen.

He wanted to go fast, to rut into his own hand like he had seen Bull pounding into the absolutely silent woman, who hadn’t even turned her face to see Dorian at all. They had carried on more roughly with soft gasps when he had walked far enough away not to see, but certainly close enough to hear.

Dorian forced himself to slow down. To make it a challenge. He rolled off one hip onto his back and curled his fingers into a fist, leaving only his index finger out.

He could do this, even with one finger.

It took a long time. An agonizingly long time.

Dorian tried _very hard_ not to think about what the Iron Bull might whisper while watching Dorian stroking himself with feathery light touches with one finger.

He came silently, suddenly, surprising even himself with the jerk.

Fuck.

 _Best give in_ , his mind said practicably. _You’re really in the shit now._

* * *

Bull knew he was being irrational, but it didn’t stop him from tiredly winking at one of the last stragglers.

“Give in,” said Cabot, yawning openly. “You’ve already tipped the two girls, yeah?”

“Stuff it,” Bull said, not paying much attention. It was late. Too late. He would only have four hours, maybe, of sleep if he went to sleep right now.

But his brain was burning.

The scout had gone willingly with him. She liked it rough, and slamming her into the stone and then slamming into her was so _unlike_ how he would have treated Dorian, Bull had almost been distracted. She was hot and trembling beneath him, and his hands were digging around the front of her hips, concentrating on balancing on one leg as he thrust.

And then –

_That voice._

“Oh.” All he had said.

Fuck.

The Iron Bull hadn’t been able to move, to joke. The scout beneath him was dangerously close to finishing, and the respite had been good, at least, for that. She had been seizing up around him, pulsing with how close she was while Dorian had stumbled gracelessly.

The Iron Bull liked it rough, when he had the chance.

Trying to cover Dorian’s footsteps he had pounded the scout so mercilessly she came at least six times, her legs unable to hold her up so that Bull held her shoulders, concentrating on hitting the spot over and over until she convulsed and squirted, gasping into the stone.

“I’ve never-“ she tried to explain. “I – “

Bull had groaned into her skin.

She had tottered away from the inn, barely able to walk, belting her pants back on.

It had taken Bull under an hour to get hot again. Dorian’s surprised face swimming in front of his eyes.

Krem knew when to keep the others away when he got like this. Every so often. With a pretty face. And a pretty back. And those eyelashes. The eyes. That _mouth._

The Iron Bull had tipped his head upstairs at a recurring guest.

She had shrugged, and they had gone at it energetically in Bull’s bed for hours.

He was tired. Sweaty.

She was still getting dressed upstairs.

And he was staring at the stragglers at the bar, his teeth almost bared in a smile. The stragglers were men, hoping for last call.

He had tried not to.

It would be no good to replace Dorian when he couldn’t focus on what this one needed.

“I need your cock in my mouth,” the man whined.

The Iron Bull was only too happy to comply, even though he was sensitive and slow to fill. The Iron Bull couldn’t even remember this one’s name. He only tied him down with thin black cords in his vacated bed and sucked every inch of his skin until the stomach was smeared with cum. Once. Twice.

Until he was begging.

And still –

"Katoh."

Bull frowned, freezing immediately, cut the man free. Turned him loose.

Sloppy, sloppy, not to be paying attention. To be greedy. To only be taking for himself, to the point where the man had to use _katoh._ Bull felt a smothering of guilt. It had been four years since anyone had needed to use it, and one chance encounter in the dark and Bull had crossed the line.

“Don’t let me do that again,” he told Cabot.

Cabot was stacking chairs on tables. “I told you,” he muttered unhelpfully.

Bull cursed, and went to gather what little sleep he could.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Dorian found the Iron Bull wiping down the back of his neck in a rain barrel by the sparring ring.

“Dorian.” Dorian wasn’t imagining the warmth in Bull’s voice when he saw him. “What brings you out here?”

“You,” admitted Dorian. “And my interruption last night. I wanted to apologize again.”

“It was nothing.”

Dorian felt his heart sink. Bull had waved it off so cavalierly, as if the tryst really was nothing. Sera hadn’t been wrong. _Everyone_.

He tried not to notice how the water was beading in the crevices of Bull’s corded shoulders, nor dripped indiscriminately down his broad back, sticking fast under the leather chest strap. Despite the mountain autumn, Dorian felt very warm.

“Good,” said Dorian lightly.

“I didn’t mind,” Bull said, his voice very low. He looked like he was talking to his hands in the washrag, ignoring the chatter of the Chargers, the other soldiers behind him.

“I beg your pardon?”

Iron Bull looked up, and he flashed the smile that was more a threat. “I said I didn’t mind you watching. You know. If you wanted to again.”

Dorian felt something in his stomach was squirming insistently. His heart was painfully pushing against the skin of his chest. He knew he was blushing, and couldn’t stop.

“Er,” he managed brilliantly. _Say something, you daft moron!_

“Thanks.” _Oh great._

The Iron Bull shrugged, throwing the towel back on the lip of the barrel. “Think about it,” he suggested, his voice low, and he brushed past Dorian to pick up a shield.

“New blocking technique,” he bellowed, and Dorian was left standing there, not quite sure if he had imagined it.

* * *

“Chief,” Krem’s voice was suspicious.

The Iron Bull looked up. “What is it?” he asked absently. He stretched, sitting up in bed; it took up most of the space. He usually calculated the Charger’s expenses, rate of income, and the inventory in the privacy of his room. He was sitting propped against the badly scratched wall, making notes.

“What are you doing?” Krem asked, leaning against the closed door behind him.

Bull glanced up again, frowning. If Krem closed the door, it must be serious. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“See,” and Krem smiled, wiping his mouth with a hand. “That’s what I don’t know. Because it _looks_ like you’re doing the expense reports, but you did those fortnight last.”

The Iron Bull sawed his jaw meditatively. So Krem was getting better at noticing. Bull would have been proud if Krem didn’t decide to butt in at an inconvenient time.

“Personal stuff,” he grunted at last.

“Personal stuff?” Krem’s eyebrows went up. “Since when are you in here, closeting your _personal_ stuff?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Iron Bull waved him off. Krem had caught him at it a few different times, always groaning good-naturedly that Bull was trying to get back for losing that eye.

“Chief.”

“What?”

“What are you really doing?”

“Personal stuff,” protested Iron Bull. “Krem, come on.”

Krem was quiet for a long moment, still leaning meditatively against his hands on the door. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said at last.

The Iron Bull wanted to be proud of Krem. Instead, he was flooded with annoyance and tried to push out the voice that said this is how everyone felt around _him._

“Go away Krem,” he said, breathing out noisily.

“Sure, Chief,” said Krem.

The Iron Bull ignored the closing of the door, but his ciphered notes were blotted by an angry splotch of ink from his shaking pen.

“Fuck.”

* * *

Dorian found the note under his door the next day.

_Midnight. Third abandoned tower. Come and see._

He burned the note to ash in his hands.

This was ridiculous. He needed to go home. He couldn’t stay _here._ Lavellan had even asked Dorian to travel all the way to the Western Approach with her and the Iron Bull next month. She was including Dorian in plans made a month in advance.

And he had _agreed_.

 _What is the alternative?_ His brain snapped. _Going home?_

Dorian had tried the mirror twice. Once with Morrigan, who looked skeptical, and once in the middle of the night. He hadn’t really thought –

It had still been chilly and disappointing, and he had wandered straight into Cullen coming out of the chapel next door. They had both blushed furiously.

“Ah,” Dorian had said, holding his hand out for the stairs. “After you.”

Cullen nodded and climbed, the silence growing uncomfortable until he had blurted: “I’m sorry we all thought you were a spy.”

Dorian laughed, his mood lightening. “As I would have thought you were,” he assured Cullen. “Don’t take it to heart.”

“Chess next Thursday?” Cullen had asked, moving topics rather gracelessly, but Dorian had agreed.

He knew, without checking a clock, it was past eleven.

He knew because he had come from chess with Cullen, and it usually started at eight. And they had had just enough wine for Cullen to be open with his discomfort with magic, hinting at some things Dorian pretended not to understand. And Dorian was _just_ tipsy enough to think.

_Why not._

It was only watching, after all. And he _did_ want to watch. It was easier to admit to himself when he wasn’t sober.

_Come and see._

Dorian navigated the cold stone of the walkways up from Cullen’s empty office. One. He rounded the walk. The stars were out and the moon was halved, bright white light spilling beneath Dorian’s shadowed feet. He hadn’t worn a coat and it was freezing.

 _Two_. He passed through the abandoned interior of the second tower, the one with the bed in it. He had half expected –

The third tower was attached to the Rest, and Dorian opened the door as silently as he could, his heart hammering in his ears as he peered inside.

He relaxed when he found it empty. Was he early?

He slipped inside and then heard them. They were up on the archer’s platform, and Dorian made sure to stand in the shadows beneath it so as not to be seen. If the Iron Bull had noticed the door quietly open and shut, he made no mention.

Dorian stood in the suddenly close dark and listened.

There was a gasp.

“What do you need?” Bull’s voice, smoky and low.

“I-I don’t know.”

Dorian felt goosebumps blossom over his skin. A man’s voice. Shaky and breathless.

“You want to feel strong?”

“Y-yes.”

“You want me to kneel for you?”

Dorian swallowed hard. He thought the other man might have as well. There was the creaking of the floorboards above. Heavy knees. The hiss of fabric opening.

Dorian pressed himself against the wall, his blood on fire. The first absurdly loud wet slurp made him swallow hard. He sucked in a breath through his nose and then covered his mouth and nose with a hand, pressing his back into the stone at the liquid moan.

From the sounds above, there was some mixture of the Iron Bull doing obscene things with his mouth that made his partner groan ever louder, and the slap of skin that meant he was raggedly thrusting, using Bull’s face.

Dorian felt his spine prickling up in a familiar way. He would have never used Bull’s mouth when there were other things to –

“Fuck!”

The shout was more an accusation than a climax, and there was the sound of a tongue on skin, and Bull’s dark chuckle again.

“And now?” he asked.

“Fuck,” said the partner, more quietly.

“Can I?”

“I –“ He seemed at a loss.

“It’s okay.” Dorian was surprised to hear the Iron Bull’s voice, usually gruff, gentle and soft. “We can be done.”

“But-“

“I’m good.”

“I-“

“You want me to go first?”

Silence, and a whispered: “Yes.”

“No problem. You just recover up here.”

There was the heavy sound of boots on wood and belatedly Dorian realized he would be standing below Bull as he descended, stuck like a deer at dawn in his staring.

He opened the door and heard the steps pause, but he didn’t look back. He broke into a run as soon as the door was shut behind him and didn’t stop until he was on the ground, sure Bull had gone back into the Rest.

* * *

The Iron Bull panted heavily into the silence. He had declined to go down to the crowd and press of people, usually so welcome on his skin. He had felt too light, shivery. _He had been there._

Bull had hoped. Had acted as if there was an audience, but he hadn’t really thought – had never expected –

He hadn’t caught Dorian’s expression, only the tail end of his hand and robes as he slipped silently through the door.

The Iron Bull hadn’t followed him, only stood panting in the silence before opening the door to the Rest and seeing Cole peering down at the press of people below from this balcony. He had stared blankly at the Iron Bull, even a Bull ignored him, taking another flight of stairs down and heading straight for his room. He saw Krem tilting his head up, marking his progress.

He really ought to give Krem a prize. Maybe he’d find a girl for him.

 _Fuck_. Dorian had been there.

Bull had barely had his door closed before he had his hand down his pants, pulling out his suddenly aching cock though it had only grown half hard when the quartermaster was flushed beneath him.

He would plan better for the next one. Better, longer, more intricate. Yes. The plan he had devised – it might work. It might –

Bull felt his breath hitch as he came hot and messy over his sheets. Stupid, not to think of planning for this.

_A magister’s son. Minrathous. Really?_

He shook his head of water. It didn’t matter, Dorian was here, now.

He threw the top sheet on the floor and rolled into the bed to plan.

* * *

“You’re very quiet.”

“Sorry.”

Dorian thought Vivienne would never do something so plebian as roll her eyes, but she narrowed them in a way that made him feel as though she had.

“It was merely an observation.”

“I will endeavor to be more interesting company,” said Dorian dryly, raising a teacup.

“You know I was not critiquing you.”

“You’re right,” said Dorian, smiling a small private smile. “I would definitely know if you were.”

Vivienne narrowed her eyes again.

“My dear,” she began, but with an acidity to her tone that made Dorian’s smile grow. “Please believe I would never take an _interest_ in your life.”

“Of course.”

“I doubt I can be impartial. I have been a Circle mage far too long. But if I were to – “

“Yes?”

Vivienne waited.

Dorian sighed again.

Vivienne was almost as patient as the Iron Bull, but the iciness in her waiting made Dorian’s skin crawl.

“It’s nothing,” he said at last.

“Ah,” said Vivienne. “Of course. Nothing.”

“It’s not that,” Dorian temporized.

“Oh?” A graceful eyebrow.

“Fine. Fine!”

“And who is nothing?”

“I don’t know,” said Dorian sourly. “I just…it’s impossible, is all.”

“And does this nothing like you back?”

“Shut up.”

Vivienne smiled around her teacup and took a slow sip.

* * *

The second time involved more planning. This was no time to be sloppy, and if the Qun taught him anything, it was how to be patient, and how to be careful.

The Iron Bull chose a repeat partner to take some of the uncertainty out of it, and thought carefully about the set up.

“A watcher?” asked the soldier, sweaty and breathless in the hayloft of the barn. Blackwall was more than happy to take walks for brandy.

“Yeah,” said the Iron Bull, propped up on an elbow, tracing careful loops around his bare skin. He had tumbled him on purpose, in advance, to tempt him. He had taken his time too, and he knew a well fucked ripple of goosebumps when he saw them.

His finger paused, and the soldier smiled. “Will I have to talk to him?”

“You don’t even have to see him.”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’ll be hot.”

“Yeah,” said the Iron Bull, leaning in for round two. “That’s what I think too.”

* * *

Dorian turned the note over in his hands, trying to keep them from shaking. He was working at a table in the library, and there were plenty of other papers scattered over his desk. He forced himself to open the letter atop the rest, as if the scout who had handed it to him in passing going up to Leliana had given him actual intelligence.

But it was Iron Bull’s handwriting.

Dorian _wanted_ to duck it under the table guiltily, but felt it would draw to much attention. Instead he smoothed it out with his hand and let it rest as if naturally, blocking the words from wandering eyes.

_My room. Closet. Come early. 9pm._

Tonight. _Tonight_. He knew why. He knew Bull was ensuring he didn’t talk himself out of it.

Dorian stood hastily. He needed to prepare. It was already dinner, and he wanted to – to –

 _Be ready?_ His mind asked. He ignored it.

At the very least, he could take a bath.

* * *

The Iron Bull paced. He wasn’t used to pacing, and his room was small, mostly taken up by the enormous pallet bed pushed against the left wall, leaving a small strip of floor to and from the door. Beneath his boots, wood creaked.

A hesitant knock.

He forced himself not to yank the door open on a very flushed Dorian. He didn’t even smell drunk.

“Hello,” Dorian said crisply.

The Iron Bull smiled. “Hey.”

“A closet?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Was the best place I could think of. The other guy is coming in a few minutes, so if you –“

But Dorian had already opened the door. Usually, the tiny box of a closet was packed full of weapons parts, shotput, half-fletched arrows, and some of Bull’s better training dummies. Now, it was suspiciously clean, and had a pillow and blanket thrown over a single wooden chair filched from the Rest downstairs. There was even a pitcher of water and a cup.

“A chair?” Dorian’s voice was suspiciously neutral. “How kind.”

“That’s because the hole in the door is at eye height,” the Iron Bull apologized. _Apologized._ As if he hadn’t cut the hole himself, careful not to make it obvious. He shook his head. “Here, sit,” he directed. “We’ll try it out.”

At least Dorian looked as nervous as he felt. He sat without complaint, which was a huge flag in Bull’s estimation of him. He didn’t want Dorian to be so nervous as to feel unsafe.

“And uh,” he cleared his throat. “If you – if you want to stop at any time. Seriously, any time – “

“Ah,” said Dorian lightly, perched on the chair. “A safeword?”

“Katoh. All end.”

“I’ll remember.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

A knock interrupted them and, frustrated, Bull slid the tiny door shut. The closet was almost a locker in size. The chair was the only thing that could fit in it, and he cursed silently when Dorian yelped. He had barked the door against his knees in his haste.

The knock came again just as Bull yanked it open. The soldier smiled sheepishly.

“Rivon,” Bull forced himself to say calmly. “A pleasure.”

When he had closed the door behind him, Rivon turned.

“Is he here?” His voice was excited, and Bull noticed his eyes were bright. He smiled slightly. That arousal was good. _Useful._

“Yeah. He’s watching.”

Rivon cut his eyes at the tiny door and Bull nodded.

“Excellent,” said Rivon, shrugging out of his coat. “How do you want me?”

The Iron Bull crossed over in two strides. He took Rivon’s face in two hands, then dropped one, remembering it was a performance as much as anything. His nerves were on fire, but at the first taste of the other man’s lips, he calmed.

He could do this.

Honestly? This stuff – this was _easy_.

* * *

Dorian was aware of his breath in the small locker, loud in his ears even as he watched as the kiss deepened, and some of the clothes hit the floor. It was a good show. Dorian appreciated the soldier’s build, the muscled shoulders as they pressed up against the Iron Bull.

But then the ropes came out.

Dorian shifted in the chair.

The Iron Bull tied the man to the bed parallel to Dorian, so that he had a side view of the proceedings. The taut muscles under the soldier’s arms; the clenched hips; the slowly stiffening length of him. He swallowed, mouth dry, and then reached down for the pitcher of water Bull had included.

He drank the first cup down as the Iron Bull, still clothed despite Dorian’s hopes, crawled up the length of the bed, kissing the inside curve of the soldier’s calves, up the inside of his thighs, in the corner of his hip while the man jerked and then laughed at himself. Up and across his stomach, taking time on his nipples until they were stiff and to the hollow of where his arm met his shoulder. The first breathy moan came when the Iron Bull kissed his neck, and then covered his mouth.

Dorian watched, the pitcher still balancing loosely on one knee, through the tiny slit between the boards.

The Iron Bull’s hands were everywhere, pressing, teasing, tickling, dragging light thumbnail marks behind them. The soldier was whimpering, straining at his ropes and finally, finally, the Iron Bull took him in hand. The loud liquid moan had Dorian letting out a shaky breath from his nostrils as he leaned back in the chair and then froze, worried he had been heard. But the gasping continued, and at the least the soldier didn’t show any recognition.

Dorian watched, putting the pitcher down as carefully as he could, as the Iron Bull bent down and kissed the tip of the shaft while the soldier bucked against the restraints. He opened his mouth, and dipped down so wet and slow the sounds the soldier made had Dorian rock hard against the front of his own trousers.

Thus followed a tortuous ten minutes while Dorian sat unmoving in his chair, his hands clenched hard against his thighs, desperate not to be heard or noticed. If he could only make it through this session – he could – could –

The groan from the Iron Bull unspooled him. Dorian let out a ragged breath, and his hand uncurled on his thigh. The Iron Bull was tugging at the rope on the right foot of the soldier, closest to Dorian, and urging him to bend it up over his shoulder. Bull was opening his body so that Dorian could see his probing finger and the man on the bed flinched and hissed and keened as Bull licked his thumb obscenely and began pressing slow rings.

Dorian couldn’t help it. He palmed himself, just once, through his pants, and bit back a groan.

Without warning, the Iron Bull glanced at the closet door. He couldn’t see Dorian, Dorian _knew_ that. But still their eyes met and the smug little half smile climbed up Bull’s face. Dorian’s hands froze around his cock, and he felt his hips strain against the wood of the chair. Goosebumps jerked suddenly from his skin across his neck and shoulder.

He watched as Bull inserted the first tip of his finger, and Dorian felt his own hips pop up in sympathy at the high breathy groan from the soldier on the bed. Suddenly, there wasn’t enough room. He fumbled with his buckles on the top of his leggings, got them just loose enough, and slipped his hands under the waistband.

There wasn’t enough slide.

Dorian listened to the high breathy keening as Bull worked a finger all the way in and held in place. He leaned down and dunked his entire hand in the pitcher before returning, shivering and half hissing at the cold on his skin.

Then he was pumping, faster than Bull was, fast enough that his jaw clenched against the pressure. He neither varied his speed nor made a sound, only watched, eyes fixed through the slat, watching Bull add a second finger.

Dorian came long before the soldier on the bed, messily, over his own hand. He hastily wiped it as clean as he could on the inside of his shirt, in the back, where it overhung. The creaking of the chair as he shifted in it made Bull freeze for an instant, but Dorian was prepared then for the quick ending, the panting of the soldier as he gestured at Bull.

“Do you want me to –“

“No,” growled Bull.

“Right,” the man grinned. “I see I was just the warm up act.”

Dorian watched Bull’s face soften, saw him turn and kiss the man genuinely fondly and felt a stab of jealousy that had no place in his current circumstances. Then the soldier dressed, and let himself out.

The Iron Bull was still sitting on the bed, panting.

Dorian was sitting in the dark on his chair.

They both waited for the other to open the door.

Finally, Dorian capitulated, standing up in the small space. He tried the door. It did not budge.

“A little help?” he called lightly, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

He jumped as Bull slapped the door. “It sticks,” he grunted, but then slid it open.

They stood, face to face in the half shadow of Bull’s bulk.

Dorian could feel his heart in the base of his throat and it made him swallow against the pounding. He glanced up into Bull’s face, then away, very fast.

“Good show,” he said lightly.

“Heard you a couple of times,” Bull said, a half smile creeping up his face.

“Yes, well,” Dorian managed. “It was a creaky chair.”

“Is that all?”

Dorian had a sudden fear and he started to laugh.

The Iron Bull looked taken aback for a moment, then grinned. “What?”

“Please,” said Dorian, carefully twining around Bull for the door. “Don’t drink the water.”

* * *

“Boss, come on,” called Bull up to Lavellan. She was perching precariously on a cliff. “Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

“Dorian, come move this board,” the Inquisitor called back cheerfully. “I’m picking up this shard if it kills me.”

“It _might_ ,” Varric drawled.

“Shut up,” said Lavellan.

The Iron Bull regarded Dorian darkly.

Dorian shrugged, then sighed. Bull watched as Dorian _pulled_ on the old and rotten wood to form a sort of bridge from cliff face to standing stone.

“The wood isn’t strong,” he told her, shielding his eyes against the brutal sun of the Western Approach.

“I’m light,” she said lightly.

Dorian rolled his eyes. Bull felt himself flinch as Lavellan skipped surely and picked up a bit of the fallen star matter.

“Got it!”

“Now get down,” Varric said, his voice uneasy. “I’ll feel a lot better when you’re back on the ground.”

There was a cracking, reality-tearing sound, and they all looked up, Lavellan still on her rock spire.

“A rift!”

“Maker damn it,” Varric said. “And I was just hoping we might walk for _one day_ without seeing one.”

“Let’s go,” said Lavellan eagerly, running back down the board. It cracked in the middle while Dorian winced, but, unperturbed, she jumped to the sand and brushed her hands on her thighs. “Ready?”

“I gotta say boss -” Bull started, his voice approving.

“Easy there, varghest,” said Lavellan. “I’ve got a fellow back home, you know.”

They both chuckled, and Bull pushed himself to the ground-eating jog Lavellan could keep up all day. He had to hand it to the Dalish: they were light and good at covering distance. Iron Bull was opposite: he was heavy, and preferred swinging his heavy greataxe in place. Romping with Lavellan was absolutely _wrecking_ his knee and back.

He didn’t complain though.

He could feel the sun burning his skin. It wouldn’t show, he’d only get a little darker grey, but it prickled uncomfortably, the sweat trickling down the curve of his spine, his underarms hot against his body as they jogged.

Dorian was glistening, the neck of his robes drenched in a deep v of sweat. The Iron Bull forced himself to look away as Dorian sighed and began to jog after Lavellan. Bull was the slowest. He liked to take rear guard.

The rift fight was brief, at least, and then another slog through the sand, aiming for the shadow of a canyon only to discover the door sealed shut.

“Dwarven make,” said Varric, with something like disgust. They were all hot and panting, leaning against the stone for the meager bit of shade. “You can’t open it on this side.”

Bull shrugged a shoulder. “Want me – to – try – “ he panted.

“If you want to bust your shoulder,” Varric snorted, even as Lavellan shook her head. Though she had a similar complexion to Dorian, and Varric was almost blistered with sunburn, she looked strangely pale and sick.

“You okay, boss?”

“Uh huh,” she said, not at all convincingly.

“Water?” Varric offered.

Lavellan took the canteen and dropped it almost at once, her fingers slackening like she had forgotten she was holding it.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she stumbled, watching the water splash across the sand.

Dorian put a hand to her arm, then frowning, up to her face.

She jerked her chin away, her ears flicking irritably.

“No, stop that,” Dorian said absently, clasping his hand on the side of her neck. “Your pulse is thready. You’re clammy all over. It seems you’re experiencing sun stroke.”

“Just tired,” Lavellan said, still staring at the canteen.

Bull wondered if she was trying to pick it up, though her body was immobile.

He turned directly to Dorian. “What do we do?”

“Pack her with ice, most likely. Give her a little water, but not too much or she’ll throw up. We’ll have to carry her.”

“I’m not being carried,” Lavellan laughed, but with a dangerous edge to it.

“I don’t think you can walk,” said Dorian shortly.

“Can,” she shot back weakly, then held his gaze.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Are you…walking now?”

She frowned. “Am I not?”

“Andraste’s ass,” sighed Bull, and he moved up behind her, trying to gather her under the arms. She flinched away from him, stumbling forward a few steps.

“Hey! Hey! No. I don’t – you’re like the _sun_ , Bull.”

They all laughed, even as Dorian nodded at Varric to knock her knees out from under her while she went down with a squeal.

“Just hang on,” Dorian sighed as she struggled to get up.

The Iron Bull watched as the mage pressed two hands to Lavellan’s shoulders and breathed out a long breath. She jerked once beneath him and then whimpered a string of curse words.

“Fuck off,” she told Dorian. “ _Even_ my underwear?”

Dorian was smiling faintly. “Especially there. Biggest arteries excrete the most heat. Sorry. You can pick her up now,” he added to the Iron Bull.

Bull winced as he got a hand under her knees and heard the crunch of ice beneath her clothes.

“Damn it, you stink,” Lavellan complained. She weakly tried to thrash around, like a cat. “I don’t want-“

“Where’s the nearest camp, do you reckon?” Bull asked, maneuvering the Inquisitor towards her very sad looking horse. The mare was wilting in the heat; she wasn’t made for the climate but had been necessary to carry the amount of water they needed in the desert.

“Back the way we came,” said Dorian heavily.

“Should have brought the dracolisk,” Varric muttered unhappily, stroking the sweaty patches under the horse’s eye.

The three of them glanced at each other, and the Iron Bull went first. He was the best at navigation and maps, being a merc by trade. Dorian led the horse, while Varric tried to cheer a half-coherent Lavellan. She kept trying to tip sideways out of the saddle, forcing Varric to walk with a hand on her boot to hold her in place.

Dorian was trying to cheer them both up. "You know, Varric, I went to Kirkwall once."

"Yeah?"

"Bit of a shithole."

Varric chuckled fondly, tugging on Lavellan's anchor scarred hand when she tipped sideways. "Yeah..."

Bull hated going back to a camp they had already found, but in this case there wasn’t a choice to try to set up a new one. It would mean they would need to send for scouts, get the supply wagons out there, and still have a living horse – or living Inquisitor for that matter – at the end of it. The scouts raised their hands in welcome, but quickly darted forward when they saw the Inquisitor slumped over the neck of her mount, which barely looked better.

“We’re going to have to return to Skyhold,” Dorian said in an undertone as they stood, watching Varric talking to the on-call healer.

“Yeah,” agreed Bull, without looking over.

“We didn’t get anything done,” said Dorian.

“We found a door. Closed a rift.”

“A _day_ , Bull. A fucking _day_ I’m out here.”

Bull was surprised by both the tone and words. He glanced down at Dorian, frowning.

“I’ve been cooped up in Skyhold for – for _however long_. Since the Hinterlands. I never get to go out to – “

The Iron Bull realized belatedly this was true. How many months had it been? Three? Four? Dorian must be going stir crazy.

“So you’re saying,” he said slowly, drawing it out, testing his footing every word. “I should try to make Skyhold more…entertaining… for you.”

Dorian was already sunburnt, but even the top of his scalp turned red as he tried not to smile in utter embarrassment.

“Oh, I didn’t mean-“

“Didn’t you?” The Iron Bull knew when his gaze was having an effect on people. They always tried to look away from it. And those that were interested _always_ looked at his mouth.

Dorian’s gaze flitted to his lips and back up.

“Okay then,” Bull said cheekily. “Expect a third invitation.”

* * *

Dorian was nearly flattened to the keep wall as Cullen pushed roughly through the crowds of people, his face blank with terror.

“I’m fine,” Lavellan said wearily from the cart bed. “Everybody’s making a-“ The end of the sentence was cut off as he dove head and shoulders over the edge and hugged her so hard she squeaked. He pressed his jaw into her hair and murmured something into her fluted ear.

Dorian saw the tips of them go red.

He turned away, something fluttering in his stomach.

“You wanna get a drink?”

Dorian turned, blinking, at Iron Bull.

“Right now?”

“Why not?”

“I was going to bathe.”

“Nah, once you do that, you’re not coming back out.”

“How well you know me,” Dorian said wryly, then paused, horrified at the slip.

“Starting to,” said Bull with a small smile. “A little. Come on.”

Dorian wasn’t sure how, exactly, Bull had managed to pull him into the Herald’s Rest so quickly. They had been by Lavellan and Cullen, and then they were on bar stools, Bull flagging Cabot down for a drink.

“Still sour about the expedition, huh?” Bull guessed, watching Dorian’s face.

“It’s just a very long way to travel,” Dorian sighed. “Three weeks either way. And for what? Nothing.”

“You think we should have waited?”

“Or just stopped somewhere closer. Just for her to get better. The sun stroke didn’t last more than a day or two.”

“She’s weak as milk.”

“We could have-“ Dorian began, then bit his tongue. He knew how ungracious he was sounding. Like his vacation had been ruined.

“We’re about to get back out there,” Bull said easily. “I know the second group already went.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Solas, Cassandra, and Cole all went out.”

“I’m sure Cassandra was delighted.”

“Yeah,” Bull chuckled. “I’m sure she was.”

Dorian didn’t envy the Seeker. Three weeks of traveling with Solas – always meditating – or _Cole_ for company.

“Why?”

“Did they go out?”

“Yes.”

“Rumor is,” said Bull, finally picking up his mug in two fingers, though Dorian used the handle with his whole hand. “They’re looking to take Adamant Fortress. Varric’s already somewhere on the ramparts talking to Hawke.”

“Who?”

“Right. You wouldn’t know. Believe me, she is _not_ popular in Par Vollen.”

“One of Varric’s friends?” guessed Dorian wryly.

“Yep. A famous one too. Cassandra is ready to boil Varric’s blood herself.”

“Ouch.”

“While he’s alive, or so her description led Krem to believe.” But Bull was smiling like the death threats from Cassandra only made him like her more. “Part of the reason Leliana sent her on ahead.”

“You know an awful lot,” Dorian said suspiciously, “For just getting here yourself.”

“Got my news on the way. Drivers. Carters. You know.”

Dorian shook his head, impressed in spite of himself.

“They’ll want us back out there. All of us,” Bull said, taking another long pull from his mug. “Just you wait. That’s why I wanted to get the third invite out in the open.”

Dorian felt his stomach flip. “Oh?” he said lightly. “Am I a participant now?”

The Iron Bull flashed his teeth. “Not unless you want to be. But you are watching in the open. If you’re up for it.”

Dorian was glad of his sunburn as he felt himself blush. They were in a public bar.

Bull gave a jerk of one shoulder as an apology. “You game?”

“You mean, I’d be openly watching. From a chair?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“And they’d be okay with it?”

“Was going to stick to men, if that’s alright.”

“Fine by me,” Dorian forced his voice to be dry and light, instead of cracking with – with – _something._

“Oh, and if you want to play, you only have to ask.”

“Thanks very much.” Dorian did not have to fake the dryness now.

“Or just get yourself off.”

This time Dorian covered his face with one hand, rubbing his forehead as he grinned even as Bull snorted. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

“A bit. Yeah. Wanted to see how private you’d get.”

“Somewhere between then and now, I’d say.”

The Iron Bull’s smile widened. “Okay. Noted.”

“Are _you_ going to get yourself off this time?” Dorian was amazed at his own boldness, but he dropped the hand from his brow as if unaffected.

“You noticed that, did you?”

“Hard not to.”

“And I noticed you did.”

Dorian ran the tip of his tongue over a sharp back molar as they stared at each other.

To his surprise, the Iron Bull ducked a horn to one side. “Fine. Yeah. If that’s your condition.”

“My _condition_?” Dorian couldn’t keep the delight from his voice, and Bull’s pupil dilated even as he stared down at him.

“Difficult, are you?” he asked pleasantly.

Dorian only smiled.

* * *

The Iron Bull studied the set up critically. His room was still small, but it would have to do. There was the bed, and at the foot of the bed, the wooden chair from downstairs, facing away.

Meddin was a good sort. Dark skinned, quiet, and surprisingly gifted at finding the most sensitive parts of Bull’s body. The Iron Bull hadn’t expected to like tumbling the builder quite _so_ much, but he was a sucker for a well built back, and Meddin had been dripping sweat when Bull had met him.

He was a repeat favorite.

The Iron Bull never mentioned Meddin’s wife or children. Neither did the builder. Hey, he was what the guy needed. It was up to him if he was ever going to act on it, or tell his wife. They agreed early on not to talk. Strictly business, all the way.

And business was _good._

The knock on the door. Bull opened it and stood aside for Meddin, who began shrugging out of his jacket almost before Bull had the door shut.

“Hey, easy, wait up.”

“Tight time. And you wanted to go next week too, right?” Meddin’s voice was muffled as he pulled the fabric over his head, and Iron Bull had to clear his throat.

“Yeah. Wanted to talk to you about it. There’s this guy.”

“Another?” Meddin paused, the shirt bunched between his hands in front of him. He gave it thought. “Okay. I’m open to it. Never done it with three, though.”

“You should try it,” Bull said, before he could stop his mouth. “You might like it.” _And so might your wife_ , he added silently. He had seen her. She was buck wild and gorgeous, and clearly so wound up by not getting anything from Meddin she would do with a tumble. But Iron Bull had his own ethics. No two in a family, not unless they came to him as a pair.

“I said okay,” Meddin grinned, pulling at his belt. “Now get undressed.”

“The guy next week isn’t joining us.”

The builder stilled. “Oh?”

“Watching. Wanted to see if that was okay.”

“Touching himself?”

“Maybe.” Bull _hoped_ he would. He wanted to see Dorian coming undone, not just hear the repressed breath against the wood of the closet door, the squeaking of a chair as he imagined Dorian’s face.

“Oh.” Meddin was disappointed.

“Look,” said Bull, gambling. “The threesome. I’ll do it with you and someone else. Your wife, maybe?”

Meddin’s face went carefully blank, and Iron Bull waited. He wasn’t sure if he had pushed too far, but it was a rookie mistake to rush in and try to over-explain.

“What?” Meddin asked finally, carefully.

“It’d be good for her,” the Iron Bull promised.

“Fuck.”

“That’s what I’m offering.”

The builder wiped a hand over his chin and laughed as he thought. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally.

“Still want to fuck?”

“Maker, yes.”

The Iron Bull pulled on his own belt. “Good,” he smiled. “Because there are some things I want to practice.”

* * *

Dorian had two glasses of wine before he started the climb up the stairs. He knew the bar was no more raucous than usual, but it felt heart-thunderingly loud, like everyone was watching and remarking on his destination.

The Iron Bull had even had the thoughtfulness and foresight to make Dorian more comfortable by scheduling the liaison after the Chargers were sent to Adamant, serving as scouts and readying reports for Leliana. So there was no one to watch Dorian, he knew rationally, as he turned right at the top of the stairs and carefully picked his way past occupied tables, feeling his face burn. It was midnight, or just past, near as he could tell. Bull had wanted it late enough that the bar wouldn’t be interested in people leaving, but also so that Dorian had stewed all day in gut squirming terror at the prospect.

Bull had certainly given him time to get ready: twelve hours of time. Dorian wasn’t sure if he was supposed to read into the message, prepare himself in some way. He had washed and oiled his skin and hair, prepared the way he might of for any other rendezvous, only with the certain knowledge _he_ wasn’t the one getting fucked.

_Was he?_

Heart in his throat, he rapped on the door, which was opened immediately.

The Iron Bull was only half dressed. He wasn’t wearing his shoulder holster or mantle belt, only a striped pair of trousers and bare feet. He didn’t even smile at first, his eye flicking worriedly over Dorian’s face, checking for something invisible Dorian couldn’t name.

Evidently, Bull was satisfied, because he relaxed into an easy half grin. “Hey,” he said casually. “Come on in.”

Dorian almost stopped in the doorway when Bull stood to one side. The room was very small, with nothing in it except the enormous bed and the wooden wall of the closet, leaving a narrow channel of walking room. So Dorian could feel the way Bull’s breath hitched where Dorian had frozen, his shoulder pressed against him in the act of brushing by.

The man on the bed was beautiful.

Large, well-muscled, dark skinned, he glistened with oil in the lamplight. He was gagged, and his hands tied in an intricate knot up to his elbows before him. He winked at Dorian.

Dorian, to his mortification, like some sort of child, _blushed._

The Iron Bull chuckled again, and the man on the bed made a sound in his throat like approval.

“Dorian, this is Meddin. Meddin, Dorian. You’d like each other.” Bull said this with the absolute surety that all his friends would like each other, because he had exquisite taste.

“Hello,” Dorian managed to propel himself to the foot of the bed. Meddin was already sweating and half hard.

“We started a little without you,” the Iron Bull admitted, his voice low and dark against the back of Dorian’s neck, making his shoulders tense up.

Warm hands clamped down over his collarbones. “None of that,” Bull said severely, and with something in his voice that Dorian had never heard but his body _immediately_ liked.

He scowled both in exasperation at himself, and to hide his nerves. “And where do –“ He trailed off.

There was the wooden chair again, facing the wrong way, its back towards the bed. It faced the wall with enough leg room for someone to sit down, but not much more. And propped against the wall was a standing mirror, perfectly reflecting the chair and Meddin.

“Ah,” Dorian said. “I see.”

He could feel the Iron Bull’s eye on his face again, looking for…something. He tried to keep his face neutral.

Bull had dropped one hand from Dorian’s shoulders, but with the other he pressed down, not even squeezing, just weighting Dorian to the floor as he leaned in slightly, so slightly Meddin might not even see.

“Too much?” he asked huskily. His voice still had that thread of authority that was making Dorian’s mouth dry.

He woodenly shook his head.

“Dorian.” His name was amused disbelief.

“Maybe,” he said, almost inaudibly. “But…I’ll be able to see you in it?”

“All of us,” Bull confirmed.

“And you’ll see me?” Dorian was mastering the situation rapidly, and his own voice, which was wry again.

“Feel free to put on a show,” Bull said, with something akin to his usual teasing, relief tinging the edges.

“I’ve never done this before,” Dorian said, more loudly. “Do we….shake hands?”

Meddin laughed into his gag.

Satisfied, Dorian sat in the chair, trying not to look at himself. In the lowlight, his eyes were pits in his face, filled in with cast shadow. Instead, he stretched out his legs and angled his body on the chair so he could see over his shoulder where the Iron Bull had crawled back into the bed in front of Meddin. The bound man’s back was to Dorian, and he could see it flexing as Bull maneuvered both of them carefully sideways in the bed, so that Dorian could have a profile.

He didn’t want to complain. Bull was being thoughtful. Dorian couldn’t voice his opinion he only cared about watching Bull’s face.

Instead he trained his eyes on Bull’s hands, carefully caressing the other man’s hips. Bull ran his fingers down the length of trembling thighs, brought the bound hands to his mouth, and gently sucked on one finger at a time. Only once did his gaze flick to Dorian, in the middle of sucking the middle finger. Dorian couldn’t help his wry grin, even as his mouth felt dry. That was like Bull. Cheeky to the last.

Dorian listened, goosebumps erupting across his arms, as the two kissed, slow and rough around the gag. The Iron Bull was kissing Meddin’s neck, and his hand was creeping around his back, down towards his ass. Dorian, frustrated he couldn’t see, shifted in his seat for a better view, and the Iron Bull froze, grinning at him in the reflection of the mirror, until Dorian resettled.

Meddin groaned.

Dorian glared.

The Iron Bull grabbed the meat of the ass and Meddin shifted forward.

Dorian couldn’t see the finger disappearing around the curve of Meddin’s hip, but he could see the jerk forward, the slow filling of his hardening cock, his rounding shoulders and sweating forehead into Bull’s shoulder.

And Dorian could see the tiny things Bull did to show care: the kiss to the temple, the low praise in the shell of the ear, holding the bound man upright with his other arm, sinking his teeth gently into his collarbone as he groaned.

The second finger was showier, Bull checking the mirror constantly to make sure the angle was good for Dorian. Seeing it wasn’t, he tumbled suddenly onto his back, carrying Meddin atop him and forcing him on his knees, his ass absurdly opened in the mirror by Bull’s hand.

Dorian made a sound somewhere in his throat at the view, his stomach suddenly full of fire.

There was a surprised sound of response Dorian guessed was from Meddin, but nothing at all from the Iron Bull, who began hammering into Meddin so quickly that the other man jerked up Bull’s body.

A third finger. The stretch was so wide Dorian could see air as Bull carefully pulsed them open, like he was flexing his fingers. Dorian shifted again in his seat, sliding even lower down so that his head was resting against the footboard, his legs braced against the mirror, offering the least shadow of himself, able to see it all. He was rock hard.

There was another shift. The Iron Bull was scooting upwards in the bed, against the headboard, one eye trained on the mirror. Dorian wasn’t sure if they could make eye contact anymore, since he was slumped down so far, but Bull seemed to be measuring distance as he positioned himself, and then he lifted up his back and pulled off his trousers.

Dorian swallowed hard. His mouth and throat were dry, but his heart was at the base of it, loud and hot and trying to escape the liquid molten feeling in his stomach. He squirmed in his seat.

The Iron Bull was thick and huge, and curving upwards in a way that made Dorian want to take him in his mouth just to fill it with something. Meddin seemed to have the same idea because he dove face first on the bed and buried his head between Bull’s thighs, his arms bent beneath him awkwardly.

The Iron Bull hissed at the first contact of skin and tongue, and Dorian breathed out hard in silent agreement. Bull raised his hands above his head to hold the wooden headboard in two hands, drawing up his torso in an elongated fashion so that Dorian could see his breath trembling in his belly as Meddin bobbed.

The Iron Bull met his eyes.

 _Fuck_ , thought Dorian. So much for that.

There was a challenge in Bull’s gaze, and Dorian wondered if he were going to speak: to _command_ Dorian. But he only stared at him, something in his face blazing, until Dorian, almost mechanically, moved his hand to his waistband and dipped it beneath. It was such a relief to touch himself he closed his eyes, digging his heels into the floor as he tipped his head hard into the wood of the chair. It creaked.

“Hey,” said the Iron Bull, and Dorian’s eyes popped open.

But Bull wasn’t speaking to him, urging Meddin up and around, turning in Bull’s lap to face Dorian, squatting and his hands tied, his mouth wet and sloppy as the Iron Bull slowly slicked himself up, watching Dorian’s equally working hand beneath his shirt, and then guided the other man onto him.

Meddin sank down an inch at a time, gasping.

Dorian flipped up his shirttails and hips, tugging down the tight constriction of his pants.

There was a gratifying grunt from the bed as he uncovered himself in the mirror, looking hedonistically sprawled and half tipsy with the wine catching him up as he loosely fisted himself half a dozen times while Meddin only managed to sink down to the hilt, his knees trembling, dark muscles stark with sweat.

The Iron Bull was biting into the other man’s collarbone, his eye locked on Dorian in the mirror.

Then Meddin pushed himself agonizingly upwards, Bull’s hands bracing him one on his hip and one under his ass, guiding and lifting without seeming to give the weight a thought. When enough of Bull was visible between the triangle of Meddin’s legs in the mirror, and Meddin was grinning around his gag at Dorian’s frozen hands, he slammed back down. The Iron Bull grunted, and Dorian hissed. Meddin chuckled in the back of his throat, pleased with his power.

He set a punishingly slow pace. The Iron Bull was tensing in turns beneath him. Dorian could see Bull’s fingers going slack then tightening their grip as Meddin pushed down again. The view in the mirror was exquisite. Unconsciously, Dorian was timing the push of his hand to the thrusts, and it was nowhere near enough stimulation.

The Iron Bull was watching Dorian. Watching the way Dorian’s knees were shaking where he had locked them. Watching Dorian’s slow moving hand, his tight mouth. Without warning, he dumped Meddin forward onto the bed on his elbows and knees, climbing, still settled inside of the other man, to his knees. Meddin groaned around the gag as the Iron Bull started drilling into him mercilessly, Dorian matching the faster pace with suddenly hot fingers.

Meddin was grunting, the Iron Bull not watching him directly, but the reflection of his face pressed to the mattress. Every so often, Dorian could feel Bull watching him too, but his gaze was plastered to the incoherent, drooling joy of the man beneath the Iron Bull.

Bull had a hand between Meddin’s legs, stroking him and squeezing, judging as Meddin writhed and gasped, his body spasming and shivering under the contact. Suddenly, the Iron Bull drew him up bodily, one hand under his chest, to hold him upright in the mirror, still shoving into him from behind so that Meddin’s dark form was laid out against Bull’s broad backdrop of grey skin. Bull had an iron forearm holding him up, the other clutching his hip close as Meddin screamed against the gag, his head snapping back as he came in long stripes across the bed.

Dorian was watching in awe, his hand still on himself, forgetful, and then Meddin was falling into the sheets, Bull still working deeper and deeper into him, grunting and using both hands to pull hips closer. The Iron Bull was staring directly at Dorian, and Dorian knew suddenly, with perfect clarity, that if he didn’t finish himself off before Bull did, that Bull was going to come over there and help him along.

His hand suddenly blurred, fisting against himself, and a grin spread across Bull’s gaze as he increased his own speed. Frantically, Dorian tried to match it, tried to get there faster. His legs were stiff in front of him, his spine tingling in the lower part of his back where it always did, his hips bucking against the chair in tiny jerks, trying to force it, to go faster to –

The Iron Bull pulled out of Meddin and Dorian, almost delirious with the frantic need, came so hard it spattered the mirror, slowing to a drip as the Iron Bull met his eye in the clear part of the mirror, coming silently across the dark skin of his lover’s back. Dorian wasn't sure if the man in the bed groaned in relief or contentment.

There was only the sound of heavy breathing as all of them panted, Bull still up on his knees, before he sat back suddenly on his heels, blinking like he was exhausted.

Stiffly, Dorian drew his legs back, forcing his knees to bend, and pushed himself up the back of the chair.

“Seriously,” Meddin spoke for the first time that evening, having pulled the gag out of his own mouth to pant. “That was…the best sex…I’ve ever had. Every…every man I fuck…I will think of this mirror…” He turned his face over his shoulder, still facedown and boneless in the bed. “The mirror trick…I’ll remember it.”

The Iron Bull nodded, still panting hard.

“You came fast,” Meddin noted. “I expected it to last longer.”

“My fault,” Dorian cut in, saving Bull from an embarrassed explanation. “It was a challenge.”

The Iron Bull’s eye flashed up to Dorian in surprise. “Yeah,” he said after a minute, as if surprised Dorian had guessed. “It was.”

“Fuck,” Meddin groaned. “I don’t want to move, but I have to get home.”

“I’ll get you a rag,” Bull managed after a minute, falling heavily on one hip to swing numb legs over the edge of the bed.

Dorian couldn’t stand to see Bull so stiff on his knee. Instead, he sprang up, slightly light-headed, half tucked and with his shirttails covering the unlaced portion of his breeches. “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks,” said Meddin, holding his hands out to Bull to untie.

Wordlessly, Bull cut the slim black cords with a knife.

Dorian tired not to notice the way Meddin’s eyebrows rose, but he took the wet rag from the water pitcher without comment.

Dorian leaned against the sticking closet door as they both watched Meddin, who seemed to realize instantly they were waiting for him to leave. Dorian felt badly that he had only half washed before he was shoving on his boots, pulling his shirt over his head. He still didn’t try to stop him.

“Thank you again,” Meddin said to Bull, then, passing Dorian, squeezed his forearm.

“You were beautiful,” he murmured.

Dorian flushed.

The door clicked behind him in the silence, and the Iron Bull was still on the bed, one knee crossed under a leg as he stared at Dorian.

Dorian stared back.

The silence was so tense Dorian could feel the hairs on his forearms lifting.

“So,” said Bull after a silence, with a shit-eating grin. “You want to ride the bull?”

Dorian threw the pitcher of water in his face as he laughed.

Bull sputtered gracefully.

“You’re a mess,” Dorian said fondly instead.

“It was hot,” said Bull after a minute, finally swinging his other leg to the floor, and Dorian felt the space between them grow small, as there was barely a walking channel between the bed and the wall.

“Sorry about the mess,” said Dorian lightly.

“Dorian.”

“Yes?”

“Can you just?”

“What?” But he knew. _Be serious._

“Just come here?” The Iron Bull held out a hand, and Dorian, suddenly shy and awkward, allowed himself to be dragged forward to stand between Bull’s legs. He tried not to let his gaze flick down, taking in the softening nakedness of him.

The Iron Bull grinned. “I think we’re going to do this.”

“Yes,” sighed Dorian, rather aggrieved. “I think we are.” He swiped at Bull’s large sloping shoulders, still wet with water, shaking it onto the floor.

“How long?” asked Bull.

“How long what?” replied Dorian pertly, though he already knew that too.

“You brat,” said Bull, a pleased smirk working its way up his face. “You know perfectly well.”

“A while,” said Dorian, trying to squirm backwards from the sudden and hot hand against his hip.

“Oh good,” said Bull pleasantly, reaching his other hand around Dorian’s ass. “Because the rest of my night just freed up.”

* * *

The Iron Bull blinked at the ceiling, smiling slightly in the grey light of dawn. Dorian snored ferociously.

He could see the bright reflective spots of the shattered glass all over the floor, and he turned on his side to stare at them.

The movement caused the snores to pause. “What-“ the voice was sleep roughened, and Bull felt himself harden again, even though he was miserably sore. “What time is it?”

The Iron Bull turned on his other arm, shifting and shaking the bed so that Dorian grumbled and grinned into the pillow, his eyes still tightly shut.

“Early,” Bull said at last, pillowing his head on a bent elbow so his horns didn’t carve up the sheets.

“Mmm,” said Dorian. “Are you getting up?”

“Probably. Got practice to run.”

“We haven’t slept much.”

“You don’t have to get up,” Bull said at once. “You can sleep here.”

“Stinks,” grumbled Dorian, cracking a sleepy brown eye. The Iron Bull thought he could kiss those eyelids every day just to see the curled eyelashes spring back up again and again.

“You want to move to your bed?”

“ _I’m_ moving to my bed,” Dorian clarified. “ _You’ve_ a practice to run.”

He sat up and then groaned, dropping his head between his hands, the curve of his back smooth and unbroken.

The Iron Bull loved a man’s back. He propped himself on an elbow and kissed the nearest part of it, just over a kidney, where he might kill someone.

“Thanks,” mumbled Dorian.

“You okay?”

“Head.”

“Hurts?”

“Hmm. Need coffee.”

“You need sleep,” said the Iron Bull critically. He could tell when someone hadn’t had enough sleep. People often thought it was the eyes, but it wasn’t. It was the grey skin around a pressed mouth. The twitching eyebrows. The slightly swollen parts of their neck, hot to the touch, where their lymph nodes swelled.

“Need,” scoffed Dorian, still between his hands. “What I _need_.”

“What _do_ you need?” Bull had asked the question last night, and Dorian had answered him with a hungry mouth, shoving Bull’s hands roughly where he wanted.

“A bath,” laughed Dorian. His skin was crusted with sweat and other fluids. The rising sun was reflecting bright spots on the ceiling.

“Yes, your tub,” sighed Bull, as if aggrieved. “Can’t take a bucket like the rest of us.”

“Heathen,” sighed Dorian fondly, then wiggled his back hopefully, until Bull reached out and began to scratch it, feeling the crust on him flake away as he sighed contentedly.

“Like a cat,” Bull chuckled, pleased he had done so well. He hadn’t been so aroused since the night he had taken three from Cabot’s bar. He had made it last with Dorian, even if it hadn’t gone according to plan for his first time together.

“The mirror,” Dorian finally noticed. He was obviously sleepy-eyed and oblivious in the mornings, just like he had been on that first campaign in the Hinterlands.

“Yeah,” said Bull, unconcerned. “Josie will have a fit.”

“Don’t tell me that,” groaned Dorian into his hands. “I can’t believe we broke it.”

“I broke it,” said Bull, but smugly, not at all consoling.

“Drilling me into it,” said Dorian dryly. “I rather think it was my back pressed to it that cracked it."

“Yes, well,” said Bull, unrepentant. “As long as you weren’t hurt.”

“No,” said Dorian, and was silent a moment. His brown eyes were suddenly very shy, hiding beneath the curling eyelashes before he flicked his gaze up to the Iron Bull. When he stared at Bull in the dawn, Bull noticed the eyes were brown with flecks of green, like staring up at a canopy of trees in spring.

“Thank you,” Dorian was saying, and Iron Bull snapped his attention back on him.

“I’d like to go again,” Bull heard himself say. He never did this. He always waited for them to offer. Always gave what they needed. Never pushed himself forward. He was ready to meet anybody where they were. And here he was, expressing his _wants_.

“Me too,” said Dorian quickly, too quickly, and Bull’s pounding heart settled down as he pushed himself up the headboard to half sitting before swinging his legs out of bed.

“You want me to –“ Dorian began.

“No,” grunted the Iron Bull, hastily finding pants to cover his morning wood. “It’s fine.”

“I’m _very_ good with my mouth,” Dorian said angelically.

The Iron Bull reached out fingers and tugged hard on Dorian’s hair. By the way his eyes dilated, Bull knew he liked that.

“Later,” he promised, already spinning scenarios in his mind.

“Tonight?”

The Iron Bull grinned. This time, Dorian had suggested the time. “Perfect.”

* * *

“My dear,” said Vivienne over her cup of tea. “You seem different.”

“Ah,” said Dorian, who was busy wolfing down his third scone. It had some sort of sweet red berry he had never tasted before. “That’s because I’m well rested and well fucked.”

If he had thought to shock Madame de Fer, he had not succeeded. There was only the briefest hesitation as she lifted the rim up to her mouth, and this time her smile around the brim was so self-satisfied, it made Dorian throw a bit of scone at her.

She brushed it coolly from her lap. “I told you. Despite your excellent fashion sense, sometimes you need to remove your vanity from the equation.”

"Remove my vanity, or remove my clothes?"

Vivienne only sipped her tea with a tight mouth, looking for all the world like she had orchestrated it herself.

“You know that’s your least attractive trait,” Dorian told her irritably. “Telling people so.”

“I can’t help being right.”

“You can help being right loudly.”

“Yes,” conceded Vivienne. Her dark eyes glittered as she tightened the corners. Her version of a smile. “I could. But where’s the advantage in that?”

Dorian mock-toasted her with his own cup, and they said no more about it.

* * *

“Holy shit, I was upset when boss didn’t take me on the strike team,” said Bull, panting into the floor. “But honestly? Thank fucking _whatever_ gods.”

“Yes,” said Dorian, his face hidden in the crook of his elbow. They were in an abandoned room in Adamant Fortress, having recaptured the keep after a day and a night of fighting. They had collapsed in a corner together and woken up to crawl on top of each other in desperate gladness to still be alive.

“I thought she was dead,” Bull said to the ceiling. He had his eye tightly shut, and wouldn’t look at Dorian. “When the floor went out from under them.”

“Me too. And I’m such an asshole,” Bull heard the huff of a laugh against the skin of Dorian’s elbow, but saw the way Dorian's fingers tensed into the floor. Dorian wasn’t really laughing so much as confessing. “All I could think was that I was glad it wasn’t me. That she had taken Blackwall and Varric and Solas.”

“Solas had a great time, from what I hear,” Bull said mildly, helping guide the conversation away from the sunken well of Dorian’s spiraling mood. He could tell when Dorian hated himself. His tone would be brittle, his laughter spiky.

“Good. Fuck him,” said Dorian, dropping his arm and rolling on one side. He squirmed across the gritty floor to lay his head on one of Bull’s arms.

The Iron Bull tried not to show how pleased he was by this, but must have failed, because Dorian poked him in the stomach.

“You cheeky bastard,” said Dorian fondly.

“Can’t a guy rest his eyes after a fuck?”

“ _A_ fuck?” Dorian raised one of his carefully cultivated eyebrows. “At least two and a half, if you could my mouth.”

“Your mouth,” said the Iron Bull darkly, running a finger up Dorian’s throat and under his chin. “Counts for itself.”

He leaned in for the kiss.

“I can’t go again,” mumbled Dorian against his face, but he didn’t draw away.

“I can still kiss you,” Bull said, drawing back slightly, and looking at the small ways Dorian held his face, searching for the panic. “Can’t I?”

But Dorian’s face was open and pleased, if a bit red under Bull’s fingers.

“Anytime,” he said.

“Good.” And Bull kissed him.

* * *

Six months after Dorian had walked through the Eluvian, Lavellan came to see him in the library, looking unusually grave.

“Dorian, I want you to come back out to the Hinterlands with me.”

“Again?” Dorian laughed. “Seems I never get to go anywhere good. Hinterlands, then to the Western Approach, then back here, then to the Wes-“ His smile faded. “Why? What is it?”

Lavellan was fiddling with the bottom of her royal blue shirt. It was fitted to her slim frame with a row of silver buckles, and Dorian could see her agonized face in each of them as she stared down, avoiding his gaze. Finally, she pushed her black hair back over one ear and looked up. Her eyes were brown. He knew her eyes were brown. But they seemed purple from the tattooed ink of her vallaslin reflecting in the huge irises.

“There’s been a letter.”

“A letter?” His stomach was turning queerly in his abdomen, and he clasped his hands in front of him as if it was of no consequence. “Summoning us, I suppose? To the Hinterlands?”

“It’s from your father.”

Dorian’s smile dropped off. “What?”

“He sent it by way of the Chantry. It came to Mother Giselle.”

Dorian shook his head. “No,” he said, almost smiling. This was a joke, surely. Not the same woman who found him wandering Skyhold. _She_ wouldn’t be the one to send him home? A neat bookend.

“I have it here. If you want to read it.”

Dorian tried not to snatch it from her fingers, scanning the familiar handwriting.

“I’ll go alone,” he said at once.

“You don’t have to,” said Lavellan.

“It’s fine,” said Dorian, his voice strangled and high. “I want to.”

Lavellan was regarding him in a way that made him want to push her over the balcony. To push everyone over the balcony. To leave him alone. The feeling he had the day he had hidden from his father and his plans.

“If that’s what you want,” said Lavellan quietly, as if she knew exactly that was _not_ what Dorian wanted.

Dorian smiled tightly, shoved the letter in his breast pocket and took the stairs down quickly, pausing in the curving to try to think of where he was going. He couldn’t return to his rooms. He would burn the letter to ash and regret it a moment later. He didn’t want to see Vivienne though, or Maker forbid, the Iron Bull. Bull would know at once by his face something was wrong.

Of the two people he was close with that left only one: Cullen.

Dorian ignored Solas’ surprise as he stepped all the way down the stairs, crossed the mural room without a word or turning his face, and took the door out towards Cullen’s study.

Cullen was leaning on his fists against the desk, white faced and drawn when Dorian came in. He didn’t look up for a moment too long, a moment where Dorian realized Cullen might actually have a problem too, and in sudden affection and gratitude that someone was going to distract him, he asked:

“What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” said Cullen, straightening automatically.

Dorian laughed hollowly. “Oh good, me too.”

“You too?” Cullen quickly studied Dorian’s face. He was not very perceptive, but he and Dorian had been friends for a while now.

“I thought you might want to –“

“Get drunk?” Cullen suggested at once, and Dorian clicked his teeth shut on _play chess._ “Yes,” he said, grinning broadly instead. “If you don’t mind doing it somewhere private. I couldn’t stand the Rest right now.”

Cullen looked relieved.

“This isn’t going to…you know…” Dorian waved a hand. He knew, as most of the Inner Circle did except perhaps oblivious Solas or solitary Blackwall, that Cullen was trying to withdraw from Lyrium. It didn’t take a magister in academia to put two and two together.

Cullen sighed out gustily and guilty, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “No,” he said shortly. “That’s just what I’m trying to forget.”

“Forgotten,” said Dorian at once. “Do you have – ah.”

Cullen had pulled out an exquisite bottle of brandy and two glasses.

“I think I was there when Lavellan pulled that out of a smashed house,” said Dorian lightly.

“No,” said Cullen absently. “This was from the war in Emprise du Lion. Samson had sent it via red templars to that woman who was feeding them townsfolk. They found it in her house.”

“Andraste’s pyre,” Dorian swore, and took a sip. “Good taste though.”

“Yes,” said Cullen glumly. “Samson was always a man for the finer things.”

“Fuck,” said Dorian. “We can’t get into it like this, or we’ll be pathetic drunks.”

“True,” said Cullen, who was tipping back his first glass with his teeth open in a grimace. “What should we do about it?”

“We’ll play a game,” Dorian decided. He was very good at games. He had played lots of drinking games in Tevinter. As a lord, there wasn’t that much to do, once body houses lost most of their draw.

“Cards?” frowned Cullen. “I don’t have any.”

“No,” said Dorian, grinning. “Questions.”

* * *

The Iron Bull couldn’t find Dorian anywhere.

Lavellan had swung by while he was in the Rest, tipped back against the wall, a hand out against the chair rail. He had sat up when she had approached, her face troubled. He had been going to take her out with the Chargers, but –

“Boss?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. The Iron Bull _hated_ that everyone outside the Qun always said this and it was _always_ a lie. It was so stupid.

“What?”

“It’s not for me to say,” she hedged.

“Cullen?” That was his immediate guess. Lavellan’s person.

She shook her head. “No, he’s handling it alright, I think. I’m keeping my eye on him.”

The Iron Bull nodded gravely. He was too, though he acknowledged Lavellan, in this singular instance, was better at it than he was. He knew Cullen as a friend and sparring partner. Someone to fight with and trade war stories. But Lavellan knew him as a man.

Not that he hadn’t _thought_ about –

“It’s…that’s why I came to you,” Lavellan continued miserably. “I know it’s none of my business.”

“But it’s mine?” The Iron Bull raised an eyebrow, checking with Krem over her shoulder, signaling he would need to leave with the boss.

Krem nodded back, raising his beer bottle to his lips. Krem had a funny habit of not drinking out of the mugs. Bull knew why. They both never spoke of it.

The Iron Bull turned his head slowly back to face Lavellan. She was picking at the bottom of her shirt.

“Dorian?” he asked, very softly.

She nodded.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s not hu-“ She, paused and seemed confused, not wanting to lie. Iron Bull intuited it immediately. Dorian wasn’t in physical danger, but he was still hurt.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I saw him in the library. Spoke to him there, but he left.”

“He left.” Iron Bull said this flatly. Dorian _never_ left the library before dinner, and this would be the first time he had left a conversation with the Inquisitor first. With her social precedence, a code Dorian unconsciously followed, she set the tone for all conversations. Though Lavellan, Dalish born, wouldn’t think of it, Dorian leaving before she did told Bull right away how seriously he was upset.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Lavellan ended weakly.

Bull _looked_ at her, and she flicked one of her ears nervously, but didn’t look away. They both knew she was only ending on a conversational softener. She stood, and Bull gratefully stood with her.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she said again, and Bull knew it was her way of dismissing him, of letting him go. She wasn’t noble born, so it was the best she could do.

He laid a big warm hand on her shoulder in thanks, and she nearly buckled under the weight. As Bull left, he saw her going upstairs to talk to Sera, her face determinedly cheerful, trying to distract herself.

The Iron Bull went in search of Dorian.

But Dorian wasn’t in his room, and he wasn’t in library either. Vivienne was reading on her divan, and raised a graceful eyebrow when Bull sidled out to look for him.

“He’s not here,” she said calmly.

“Thanks,” said Bull, though he wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for.

“I assume this is important? If you’re looking for him here?”

“I don’t know,” Bull admitted. It was something he hated admitting.

“I see,” said Vivienne steadily. “I’ll be sure to keep my eye out for him, though it’s getting late. He might return to his room.”

Bull nodded shortly, as if this hadn’t already occurred to him, and crossed the balcony to the other door. Dorian’s rooms were on the inner part of the castle, and Bull had only been there a handful of times. They mostly fucked _anywhere_ , from Bull’s room at the Rest, to once up against the same wall Dorian had interrupted him in the beginning.

But Dorian’s room was empty.

Bull was starting to get an uneasy feeling in his stomach when he heard footsteps in the hall and quickly ducked back out, staring in astonishment as Dorian staggered towards him.

“The Iron Bull,” Dorian pronounced the whole title with a drunken slur. “Maker’s breath, aren’t you a big one.”

“Dorian,” said Bull, keeping his voice and face as neutral as he was trained. “What are you wearing?”

Dorian was wearing Cullen’s black fur stole, both armored gauntlets, one boot, and a breastplate buckled over bare skin.

“We played a game,” Dorian beamed. “I won. Pretty sure.”

“What’s Cullen wearing?” asked Bull, flattening himself to the door so that Dorian could get into his room.

The mage flared a hand and Bull tried not to wince when the fire roared up in the hearth three feet too high. Not great control then.

“Something,” Dorian said, frowning with concentration as he tried to pull off his single boot. “Pretty sure it’s something, anyway.”

“Give me,” sighed the Iron Bull, pulling the fur stole away from Dorian’s shoulders, but he held on stubbornly.

“This is my pride and joy,” frowned Dorian. “You can’t!”

“Just to get the breastplate off.”

“What? Oh, yeah. That.”

Dorian was so staggeringly drunk that he was easy to manhandle. The Iron Bull was used to drunks. The Chargers got soused all the time, but he had never seen carefully put together Dorian this undone before. He could feel the thrumming anxiety under Dorian’s flinching muscles, his almost manic smile. The way he wouldn’t quite meet Iron Bull’s eye.

Dorian, despite grinning, was not happy.

“You wanna tell me?” Bull asked him.

“Tell you what?” Dorian laughed, flinging off a sock with a dramatic kick that made him stagger.

The Iron Bull crossed the distance and caught his elbow. Dorian looked up into his face, anger scrawled across his features. It had taken so breathtakingly little to tear through the veneer that Bull knew Lavellan had been right to come find him. This wasn’t a normal upset.

“Let go.”

Iron Bull let go. He always did.

“I’m fine,” Dorian added, unnecessarily. Uncessarily to Bull, because it was so obvious he wasn’t.

Dorian backed up until his legs found the bed. “It’s all fine.”

“Good,” said Bull neutrally.

“Shut up!” Dorian snapped. “I said I’m fine!”

“Do you want this back?” Iron Bull held out the black wolf fur and Dorian looked momentarily confused.

“No, that’s Cullen’s.”

Bull tossed it on a chair rather than argue.

Dorian sat heavily down on the bed, staring at Bull, who was regarding him.

“Shut up,” he said again weakly, and fell back, his arms spread-eagled, and flopped onto the bed.

Bull went to the pitcher and poured a glass of water for Dorian. His head would need it.

He held the glass out in front of Dorian while Dorian, still sprawled on his back, struggled to focus his eyes on it.

“Spinning,” he grunted, struggling to sit up.

Iron Bull did not offer to help. Dorian looked like he might scream if anyone approached him closer than the two feet Bull kept carefully between them.

Dorian slopped the water all over his bare chest trying to guide the cup to his lips and looked down at himself stupidly.

“Where’s my shirt?”

The Iron Bull shrugged. “I would guess Cullen’s wearing it. Or you left it in his room.”

“Where’s the letter?”

Bull remained very still, watching Dorian drop the cup, still full, onto the bed and frantically begin tearing around the room looking for it.

“Where is the shirt? And the letter?” he demanded angrily. “Where is it?”

“I’ll go to Cullen’s office and look for it,” said Bull at once. Normally, he wouldn’t humor a drunk like this. But this wasn’t just a whim. Dorian was making the fire crawl up the chimney in his panic.

“Try not to burn anything down,” he said, closing the door behind him. He felt the door shudder as Dorian threw himself bodily against it, and Bull cursed.

 _Blind_ panic then.

He forced himself to jog.

Vivienne had retreated for the evening at least, so Bull didn’t see anyone crossing her balcony over the empty Great Hall. Solas was on a scaffolding painting, and didn’t even glance around when Bull jogged across the room and out the wooden door.

The night air was freezing on his skin. Skyhold, in its mountains, grew very cold, even in spring.

He slowed to a walk, modulating his breathing, before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” said Cullen.

The Iron Bull walked in, then stopped dead.

“Hi,” said the Inquisitor, her head peering out from behind the desk. From what Bull could see of her, she was naked.

“Is Cullen-“ This was a question not worth finishing, as he couldn’t imagine why else Lavellan would be naked in Cullen’s office.

“I’m here,” said Cullen, who was snickering into his lover’s shoulder, obviously just as intoxicated as Dorian. He was normally so prudish and buttoned up, the Iron Bull wasn’t sure what had possessed him to invite someone in.

“Looking for Dorian’s clothes,” said Iron Bull by way of apology.

“Ah,” said Lavellan. “Stay there, will you?”

Bull turned to look up at the archery platform where Cullen had a spare bed for nights he slept in his office. It was a fucking martyr move as the tower wasn’t insulated and there was no glass in the windows.

When he turned around, Lavellan had pulled on cream colored underclothes and was riffling through various items of clothing.

“This isn’t yours, is it?” she asked Cullen, holding out a white shirt.

“No,” said Cullen after a slow moment. He way still lying on the stone floor and idly toying with the shiny rivets on his armored pauldrons.

Bull reached out, searched the pockets, and found the letter.

Lavellan’s face, which had been amused and mischevious, instantly fell.

“This it?” Bull asked her, squarely looking in her face and not letting his gaze drift down. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Lavellan bathing on campaign. She wasn’t as much of a prude as Cassandra, and had lived her life out of doors. Still, it was the principle of the thing.

He tried very hard not to imagine what the lower half of Cullen, still obscured behind the desk, looked like right now.

“Yes,” said Lavellan.

Iron Bull left without another word. Cullen was still happy and spinning; it was pointless to bring him back down. The man so rarely had any peace from his own damn head, let the Inquisitor take him out of it.

Dorian nearly mobbed him just inside the door.

“Did you read it?” Dorian asked accusingly.

“No.” Measured. Calm.

Dorian thrust it into the fire without opening it, then tried to snatch it out moments later.

“Stop it,” said Bull, who had crossed the room in two strides and was holding him around the middle, batting his hands down. “You’ll burn yourself.”

“Get it out!” Dorian cried. “Get it out!”

The letter was black and curling with smoke. It was unreadable now.

The Iron Bull let Dorian go, then lunged and grabbed him again when Dorian started for it.

“It’s gone, Dorian! It’s gone.”

“Fuck,” said Dorian wildly. “What have I done? Fuck!” And then, as Bull knew he would from the moment he had seen him, Dorian burst into tears.

Dorian had been on the brink of it since whatever had been in that letter, Bull could deduce that much. Thin veneer of alright abandoned, Dorian sobbed unrestrainedly into the bed, drunk and messy and overwhelmed.

The Iron Bull lay next to him, not crowding, and after the initial storm of surprise and anger, Dorian crawled onto Bull’s chest and lay panting and still vibrating with tense rage.

Bull raised a careful hand and laid it in the middle of Dorian’s back, an anchoring weight. When Dorian didn’t immediately tense up and try to fight, he began rubbing circles.

“Fuck,” Dorian whispered into his skin. “ _Fuck.”_

Bull knew Dorian was feeding him the script, that the next logical thing was to ask what was wrong, but that’s not what Dorian needed. Dorian needed to tell him, his own way, without feeling forced into it.

They lay quietly on the bed for half an hour.

Bull didn’t stop rubbing circles, but he did grow dim and hazy, a half doze he sometimes managed when guarding. He knew Dorian was calm because he could no longer feel the hot trickle of tears on his skin, and the breathing beneath his hand was heavy and even.

But Dorian snored.

“My father is in the Hinterlands,” Dorian said after another ten minutes into the empty silence, his voice small and embarrassed and accusatory Bull hadn’t just played the game. It was also a lot more sober.

The Iron Bull concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly. Dorian was going to tell him now. The thing he had been avoiding in the half year they had known each other.

“I never expected him to come after me. Not all this way. It would…would have taken months to get here. All the way down through the Anderfells. The Free Marches. Months and months. He must have left earlier than…I just…I can’t believe it.”

The Iron Bull moved his hand up to Dorian’s hair to swirl smaller circles, but Dorian shook him off. They compromised when Bull was allowed to keep his heavy hand on the back of Dorian’s neck, and Dorian wouldn’t look up at Bull, his face pressed to his chest to the side.

“I don’t know why he’d come.” Dorian’s voice was very low, felt against the skin of Bull’s chest more than heard.

He skated a thumb up and down the side of Dorian’s jaw and felt the muscles pulsing there. This time, feeling the words literally blocked up in Dorian’s mouth beneath his fingers, Bull finally spoke, low and rumbling, so as not to startle Dorian atop him:

“Does he want to see you?”

“Yes.” The word was a quiet confession.

“Are you going to go?”

“Yes.” No hesitation there, only anguish.

Bull fell silent again, and after another five minutes, Dorian slithered off him to lay in the bed, hiding his face in shame Iron Bull didn’t understand.

Dorian spoke into the pillow: “Lavellan wants to come with me.”

“Do you want her to go?” The Iron Bull knew Dorian heard what was really being asked: _do you want me to come?_

“I don’t know,” Dorian said, turning his head slightly so that Bull could see his swollen eyes.

The Iron Bull waited. It was astonishing what simply waiting would uncover.

Dorian sighed gustily then seemed to gather some courage. “I have to tell you something.”

Bull kept his eye soft. He did not push.

“About the reason I ran away. Or why I was hiding. Or whatever you want to call it. When I stepped through the Eluvian.”

Bull nodded, only infinitesimally, so that the sheets rustled against his horns.

“It’s why my father is here. And why I don’t want Lavellan to go.”

“Are you going alone?” The Iron Bull wanted to curse his tongue. He was too pushy, but Dorian seemed not to notice.

“Lavellan doesn’t want me to.”

“What do you want?”

“For none of this to be happening,” Dorian admitted. “I wish he wasn’t here at all. He’s come to bring me back. Which makes me wonder why he didn’t just come through the mirror himself.”

The Iron Bull was silent.

“Which means,” and Dorian’s voice was slightly higher. “Morrigan had the right of it. The mirro can't connect anymore. So if he takes me away, if I go back to Tevinter, I’ll likely never see any of you ever again.”

 _Any of you_ meant _you_ , Bull knew. It was cold comfort to hear it.

“Dorian,” he said, very quietly, and Dorian stilled in the bed, his muscles coiled and tense, though Bull lifted his hand from his neck to give him space. “Why is your father here?”

“We had a fight,” said Dorian, very quietly. “Or rather, we didn’t.”

Iron Bull waited. He was very patient.

“I overheard him,” Dorian continued reluctantly. “He’s been…he’s been researching ways to change me. Magically.”

“Change you?” asked Bull, in the same dangerously soft tone.

“To…to either stop liking men, or neuter me, or…or just make me pliant enough to obey.”

The Iron Bull rolled onto his side to face Dorian, and Dorian flinched away, like Bull might be coming at him.

Bull pressed his mouth in a thin white line and could not speak. He knew if he let his temper get away from him, he was going to be angrier than he had been about almost anything. He would need to keep Krem away, the guys away. He would need to ask if there was something he could break down for Josephine. The cells, perhaps. Throwing loads of rock over the edge of the crumbling cliff of the castle would probably allow him to –

“It’s all right,” Dorian was saying softly, his hand on Bull’s arm.

The Iron Bull flinched beneath his touch, the way an animal in pain might. He shook himself. He put his anger in a box in his head. None of this was helping Dorian. He had to help Dorian first, take care of him first. Anger was selfish.

 _It’s not all right_ , he wanted to growl, but he could not. Dorian knew perfectly well what he was feeling. Maker’s ass, he’d had half a year to stew on it.

“You won’t go with him,” Bull said, trying for calm. It was one of the few times in his life the training from Par Vollen failed him. His voice was not even remotely calm, and he felt slamming guilt for making Dorian flinch from it.

“So you’ll come then?” asked Dorian, his voice ragged and quiet.

“Fuck,” said Bull, and felt an overwhelming protective urge. He pulled Dorian bodily, ignoring the squeaks, into his arms, holding him there with trembling muscles. There was a moment where Bull would have let go if Dorian fought. Dorian was very tense, but then a tentative hand felt the shaking in Bull’s arms and wrapped around them.

“It’s okay,” Dorian said quietly again.

“Fuck, it is _not_ ,” snarled Bull, then checked his rage again. “You shouldn’t comfort _me_ ,” he tried. Another snarl.

“I’m here with you now,” Dorian murmured.

Bull’s arms tightened.

His brain was blaring white angry static at him, and only when Dorian began to snore did he realize how much time had passed.

He left Dorian that night and swore it would be the last time he would leave him.

When Krem met him on the edge of the practice ring, covered in stone dust and sweat, he cursed.

“Fuck Chief, you okay?”

“Practice,” said Bull grimly.

“You don’t have to-“ began Krem.

“Shut up,” said Bull.

Krem shut up.

“I said it’s practice.”

* * *

“Are you sure?” asked Lavellan, just outside the door to the Gull & Lantern.

Dorian knew what she was asking, cutting her eyes at Cole. Cole wasn’t exactly Bull’s favorite companion, and Dorian found the spirit eerie, but of everyone he could have asked, at least Cole was a good excuse for already knowing.

He could shield it from Vivienne, at least, or Sera.

Dorian nodded. “You don’t have to come in,” he told Cole.

Cole nodded too, leaning against a split railing on the outside of the tavern. “I can hear from here.”

“Cole,” said Lavellan, her voice pained. Her last trip to the Hinterlands had made Cole more human than not. She had been trying with Varric, unsuccessfully, to help Cole _act_ more human. It wasn't working very well.

“Sorry,” said Cole at once, intuiting her meaning from a quick scan of her thoughts.

Dorian put his hand to his head, not so subtly reminding Cole not to do that.

"You said I could ask questions!" Cole protested.

Dorian sighed. "Rather like inviting someone into your house and they walk off with the silverware."

Cole’s face fell.

“ _I’m_ not waiting outside,” Bull said belligerently. He had been grim and silent the whole trip down. Dorian would have thought it was sweet if it wasn’t so disconcerting. He had wanted Bull along for comfort. Now instead, he felt he had to worry for him. Suppose Bull did something stupid? Like try to attack his father?

Halward Pavus was a gifted magister in his own right. If he wasn’t as fast as Dorian, it was only due to age. He was infinitely better learned in the more unique areas of magic. Darker spells that made the horrors Dorian could conjure look like weak party tricks. He didn’t want Bull meddling with that.

“I’ll go in first,” said Lavellan, playing the peacemaker. She tugged open the door of the inn, which was suspiciously silent.

Dorian turned to see the man on the stairs, and his brain turned to static.

* * *

“At least _talk_ to him,” Lavellan encouraged Dorian.

The Iron Bull wasn’t listening to her. He was watching the mage. Dorian had left. He could tell. His brown eyes, usually held tight at the corners over his cheekbones were slack and staring. Whatever Lavellan was saying, he wasn’t listening. Bull wondered if he even knew where he was.

“Boss,” he said, his voice very low.

To his surprise, Lavellan snapped an angry hand back at him, telling him to be silent as she spoke to Dorian’s father. He looked very like Dorian, the Iron Bull had to concede. It was like seeing Dorian in thirty years. Bull felt something turn over in his stomach. He didn’t usually think things like that. Like what someone he was sleeping with looked like in thirty years.

“I have nothing to say to him.” Dorian's voice was terrifyingly blank.

Iron Bull frowned. Why couldn’t Lavellan hear Dorian’s voice was merely rote memorization? Maybe a version of a rehearsed speech in his head. He didn’t seem present. Though he usually hated the stupid spirit boy, he wished he was here. Wished he could ask him. Cole never gave away facial features like other people did. It was one of the reasons Bull didn’t like being around him. Like being around a training dummy. He didn’t even move his fingers or shift when sitting. He didn’t even breathe unless he heard Bull getting irked about him not. Everything about him screamed _not_ a person.

“Dorian, please,” Lavellan’s voice was the opposite of Dorian’s. If Dorian wasn’t present, then Lavellan was too present, pressing too much meaning into her words. Living vicariously or something.

Woodenly, Dorian nodded, and Lavellan turned back for the door.

The Iron Bull shook her off when she tugged on a forearm.

“I’m not leaving,” he said stonily.

“Bull, give them some –“

“ _No._ ”

His voice did something to Dorian. Made his own heart leap.

Dorian suddenly blinked, looked over his shoulder, and he was _there._ Present. In his body. Looking devastated and bewildered and exhausted. The Iron Bull wanted to pull him bodily out of the inn, take him to the nearest campsite, commandeer a tent, and lay his hands on him so that Dorian could think of nothing else: could be no where else. He needed to _help_ , needed to protect –

“It’s fine,” Dorian said. “I’ll call for Cole if it gets too much.”

The Iron Bull froze. That was smart. He hadn’t thought that would be why Dorian had chose him. But that was Dorian. Wildly clever.

He finally nodded, allowing Lavellan to pull him out to the railing where Cole was perched, not moving, not breathing, his head cocked, _listening._

“I can’t believe you left him in there.” He rounded on the Inquisitor with less than his usual degree of calm.

She flinched, but her face was cloudy. “He’ll want the chance to reconcile later, believe me. At least let them _try._ ”

“This isn’t about _you_ , Lavellan,” snapped Bull. And he realized as she did, he had used her name. He never did that.

“You think I don’t realize how obvious I’m being?” she was getting just as angry as he was. “You think I don’t know? That my own issues with my father aren’t howling around my head right now? That I wanted to keep the letter from Dorian entirely?”

The Iron Bull clenched his jaw, and forced himself to look down at her. He didn’t want to. It was hard to look truth in the face.

“One day, and maybe sooner than you think, that man will be dead, and Dorian will have nothing but the feeling that he ran away.”

Bull breathed in slowly. He hated that she was putting him in this position. That his heart was being eaten by acid at her own vitriol, her anger and guilt at being in the Chantry that day, of not going home to her tribe, of leaving, not knowing it would be the last time.

But he couldn’t comfort her. His anger was hot. He loved Dorian, and she was hurting him.

Fuck.

Had he really thought that?

Had he really _meant_ that?

“He is sick.” That was Cole’s voice, soft and uninflected.

Bull turned, breaking the intense stare he and Lavellan were exchanging, saying much more than words. “What?”

“His father. He is sick. That’s why he came all this way. He wants Dorian to come home.”

“He can’t,” said Bull at once, barking in his panic. “He’s needed here.”

“It’s Dorian’s decision,” said Lavellan, placatingly.

Bull turned as the inn door opened. It was Dorian, alone. He felt his heart leap as he moved forward, and Dorian shook his head briefly, just once. Bull froze, his heart in his ears.

“I’d like to stay the night,” Dorian said to the Inquisitor. “I’ll meet you at the camp in the morning.”

“You don’t have to,” said Lavellan at once. “We can come to you.”

“No,” said Dorian quietly. “I’m going to see my father onto a caravan.”

Bull felt his lungs finally let out the breath.

“Then I’ll meet you.”

“Are you sure?” Lavellan asked in a low voice, as if she hadn’t just been the one advocating for him to stay.

Dorian nodded. “I’m sure.”

Lavellan looked like she was bursting to ask a dozen questions, but held herself back, merely nodding. “Tomorrow then.”

Dorian finally glanced at Bull. His eyes were strange. Bull had never seen him hold them that way, as if both present and far away, locking away pieces of himself.

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

It only took three days by cart to get from the Hinterlands to Skyhold. It had been even faster, or so Dorian had heard, to Haven. Luckily, with how many scouting camps they had set up, they never had to make the journey back on foot. Unluckily, sharing a cart with a telepathic spirit, an uncomfortable Inquisitor, and a simmeringly angry qunari mercenary was not high on his list of experiences to repeat.

There wasn’t even the relief of pitching tents. The cart drivers changed out at posts, and like the evening when Bull had put his arms around Dorian and Vivienne, the rest of them had to lump it sleeping in the cart.

Bull didn’t sleep all the first night. Dorian knew, because he hardly slept either, though he laid in the cart bed while Bull remained on the narrow bench, watching the dark road behind them.

The second day, in lieu of any drinking songs, and with a desperate air of determination, Lavellan began telling them stories of the old elven gods. Dorian had heard very garbled versions in Tevinter, and was fascinated to hear them from the Dalish. She corrected and debated a lot of his questions, passing the second day quickly while Bull sharpened his knives, or oiled the wood and leather of his warhammer.

That night, Dorian waited for Lavellan to fall asleep. Cole never slept, but neither did he mind being told to fuck off and blink out of sight for the time being. There was only the driver awake, and the steady rattle of wheels as Dorian, breathing in, picked his way around the sleeping curve of the elf, and sat next to Bull.

“Hi,” he said quietly. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. _Are you mad at me?_ Sounded so juvenile. But he had seen the way Bull had looked at him, had stewed to himself, and couldn’t come to any other conclusion.

“Fuck,” said Bull, completely taking Dorian by surprise. He watched as the qunari dropped his head in his hands, his fingers gripping his horns for a moment before letting go and raising his head, his elbows still on his knees. “Fuck. I don’t even know what to say. Are you okay?”

Dorian almost reflexively responded he was always fine. Instead, he sucked in a breath, held it, and let it out. There were no stars under the cloudy sky, and the mist was wet on his skin. He wiped at his face and realized too late it might look like he was crying, even when he wasn’t.

The Iron Bull raised an arm invitation, and Dorian scooted into the warmth, still wondering whether he should tell Bull he was fine.

“He’s dying,” was what came out of his mouth instead.

“Your dad?”

“Yeah.”

Bull was silent, and Dorian knew he was playing the waiting game. He tried to marshall his own thoughts in order.

“I don’t know how to feel,” he admitted at last, in a low voice. “I think he’s given up on…on his other plans. He says he has. Wants forgiveness, all that. Wants me to come home. Learn how to – before…”

The cart hit a huge bump, and Dorian winced at the compression of his lower back, which was knotted tight with muscle.

“I’m-“ Bull paused. “Fuck. I don’t know. I’m sorry for you, not really for him. Don’t know him. And I’m possessive. Maker, I’ve been… fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know _what_ I’m feeling. Upset and angry. And just…angry. Fuck. I don’t know why, even. I just want to pick you up and lock you in a room and just – “

“Keep me safe?” Dorian guessed wryly.

“No!”

“Fix me?”

“No. No, nothing like that. You’re – I mean. _Fuck_ , Dorian. I’ve never felt this way about _anyone._ ”

Dorian suddenly grasped what Bull was saying and his heart leapt into the base of his throat. He had never thought –

“Fuck,” he agreed quietly.

They leaned together in the dark, and didn’t dare press the soft balloon between them any more.

“I want to take care of you,” Bull said at last, very quietly. “When we’re back at Skyhold. Can I try?”

“You mean torture me until I’m wrung out?” Dorian asked dryly.

He could feel Bull stiffen again in anger beside him, and then cursed his sarcastic tongue. “Of course,” he amended instead. “But only if you let me try.”

“To do what?” The Iron Bull frowned at him in the wet cloudy night. He seemed genuinely mystified.

“To take care of you.”

* * *

“Another letter?” Bull guessed, pressing his oiled hands into Dorian’s lower back. He had knots over beneath his back dimples the size of his vertebrae.

“How’d you –“ Dorian bit off the words with a gasp, flexing against the bed. Bull liked to massage Dorian in his own bed; the mattress was thin and the palettes beneath it to bear his weight firm. Dorian’s bed had too much give.

“You slammed everything you felt this last week into your hips again. Didn’t we talk about breathing?”

“I’m breathing,” Dorian managed a whisper around real pain.

Bull heard it and eased up, coming at the knots with his thumbs from the side as Dorian squirmed.

It had been two months since Dorian had met with his father. They exchanged letters roughly once a week. And every week, Dorian looked like he could barely sit down from holding his back so stiffly. They had compromised on Bull locking Dorian in a room to keep him safe. Instead, he tried with his hands in multiple ways to wick the stress off Dorian like sweat from a horse.

Dorian groaned into the bed, and Bull shifted where he sat.

It had been one month since Iron Bull became Tal Vashoth. He was still getting used to it. Solas had congratulated him, of all people. Bull had nearly strangled him in Emprise Du Lion, but Lavellan had intervened. She was softer on Solas than Bull thought she had a right to be, especially because Solas was carrying a stupidly burning torch for her, _despite_ every soldier in the Inquisition knowing she fucked Cullen.

“What did this one say?” Bull asked, flipping Dorian over bodily to get at his hips.

Dorian made a sound Bull recognized in the back of his throat at the touch and his hips bucked in Bull’s hands as Bull grinned down at him crookedly.

Dorian writhed against the sheet and smiled like a cat in cream. He was already half hard.

“Nothing much,” Dorian winced, as Bull spread his legs in a butterfly and gently pushed at the knees, trying to open the hips. Dorian was very bad about stretching. He insisted he did, but Bull could feel every minor annoyance from the week piled up like grains of rice in Dorian’s muscles instead of meditating like he was supposed to.

“Dorian.” He used _the voice_ , which he knew Dorian liked.

He had stopped sleeping with Meddin after the threesome with his wife.

He had stopped sleeping with nearly everyone except Dorian.

Dorian had encouraged him to ‘throw them a bone’ with a lascivious wink, when Bull could tell someone might really need it. Like the Tamassran. If he hadn’t been so pissed at Lavellan, he might have offered her and Cullen a couples play. He’d really been wanting to open Cullen’s eyes – or at least open Cullen – to some things he was missing.

“Where are you?” Dorian answered, and Bull realized his hands were moving without him.

Dorian had clambered up to his knees, and reached for Bull’s face.

“I’m here with you,” Bull forced himself to say.

Dorian nodded, then twined his hands up behind Bull’s head and kissed him. “You’d better be.”

“What was in the letter?” Bull asked again, drawing away from the kiss.

Dorian sank back on his heels, and Bull felt something in his gut drop. “He’s…it’s the last year, the healers say. A few months now.”

“Shit.”

“I answered it right away. Gave it to Leliana. I’m sure she’s following the saga closely.”

Bull didn’t know. He and Leliana’s interactions had dramatically decreased after his abandoning the Qun. It swirled guiltily in his stomach. He should be talking to her. Reaching out, for Dorian’s sake.

“Bull.” Dorian was getting as adept at Krem at knowing his face.

“I’m good,” Bull answered automatically.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Bull focused, frowning, and realized belatedly that Dorian had snuck his hand behind Bull’s head and was drawing him down in bed.

“Open your legs,” Bull said huskily.

Dorian resumed the butterfly position, watching Bull through half lidded eyes, his curling eyelashes dark against his face. “I’m going home after we fight Corphyeus,” he said, just as Bull repositioned himself. He looked up at Dorian over his stomach.

“What?”

“After we – win or lose. I’m going home.”

“Fuck,” said Bull, resting his head against Dorian’s thigh. “I knew this had an expiration date, but-“

“You should come with me.”

The offer was made in a trembling, rushed way.

“Kadan,” said Bull, who had been thinking this word too long to catch the slip.

“Think about it,” Dorian urged, not even slowed. “Please.”

Mutely, Bull nodded, then he took Dorian in his mouth and slowly pulled the tension out of him, using his tongue to say what his voice could not.

* * *

“Are you all right?” Dorian asked, glancing sidelong at Cullen.

The blonde man was leaning out between the crenellations of the ramparts, hiding as much of his face as he could in his fur stole. His hands were clasped loosely together, nonchalant. Dorian didn’t want to point out to Cullen that wearing armored gloves meant the reflections from the bright sun shivered when his hands trembled.

“Some days,” Cullen managed, breathing deeply as he pushed himself harder into the stone. “Some days are just worse.”

“Do you want me to get Lavellan?”

“No,” Cullen said it too fast. “She’s busy with work. She and Josephine are trying to find some sort of contract or something. I wasn’t listening.”

Cullen was squinting, shaking his head. Dorian knew that expression. He always wore it when he had a blinding headache.

“She’d want to know,” he said gently.

“I don’t want her to see me like this,” Cullen said miserably.

“That’s very stupid,” said Dorian.

Cullen laughed weakly. “If you can believe it…I know.”

“Come on. At least let me get you back to your quarters.”

“No, no. I’ll just sleep in my office.”

“In the cold? Shivering melodramatically in your armor?” Dorian injected as much scathing disgust as he could.

“I’ll be-“

“With that headache, wouldn’t you prefer to be alone in your room at least? Or somewhere quiet?”

This made Cullen stand up, the first hopeful expression on his face Dorian had seen. “Well, when you put it that way.” A moment’s consideration: “Not my room. It doesn’t have any curtains.”

“Why is it,” said Dorian, as they made their way across the walkway, “That men never have curtains in their rooms?”

Cullen glanced over his shoulder sheepishly. “Don’t tell Josephine. She might have a fit.”

Dorian vowed to himself to immediately tell Josephine.

When the door to Solas’ mural room opened, Cullen visibly buckled.

Dorian immediately grabbed under his arm and leaned him against a wall as the door shut behind him, blocking anyone from seeing Cullen who was patting his arm gratefully, his face ashen white and standing out in sweat.

“Just the-“ he groped for words.

“Change in pressure,” Dorian supplied. “Temperature?”

Cullen nodded gratefully.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get Lavellan?”

“No. No, I’m fine.” He straightened as if to prove it, though Dorian could see the sweat rolling down his neck into the collar of his shirt. “I’ll rest in the chapel. It’s quiet. No one goes in there.”

“Do you want me to ask Solas to see if he can –“

“He can’t,” interrupted Cullen. “Not for lyrium withdrawal. Or I’d have asked you.”

Dorian blinked in surprise, leaning back.

Cullen blushed, then brushed past him.

Dorian trailed him across Solas’ room without even making the elf look up from his drafting table where he was studying. He hadn’t thought Cullen would trust him to use magic on him. The commander was notoriously prickly about magic, and after what he and Iron Bull had pieced together from hints Leliana and Lavellan had dropped, he thought he knew why. It meant a lot, then, for Cullen to admit he would have asked for Dorian’s help.

They took the stairs down from the Great Hall into the bright light of day again, setting Cullen swaying. In the distance, Dorian was automatically aware of the Iron Bull training with the Chargers. He had some sort of shield up and was practically plowing Krem into the ground. He wasn’t handling being Tal Vashoth very well, even though he wouldn’t talk about it.

Dorian didn’t want to embarrass Cullen, so he pretended to laugh, and throw a hearty arm around Cullen’s shoulders. He left it there, using the ruse to prop him up, taking some of his weight.

Cullen threw him an angry glare, but Dorian could feel him shaking.

Once out of the courtyard, Cullen rested in the shade of a wall, and shrugged out of the fur, handing it to Dorian. Out of it, Dorian could see Cullen was pink and flushed, yet covered in goosebumps all down his jawline and disappearing into his shirt.

“Just a little further,” he said quietly.

Cullen, who was starting to look like he was swimming through the air, nodded grimly.

They found the chapel mercifully empty, and Cullen collapsed on a bench in the front near the statue of Andraste burning. Dorian left him alone, the fur mantle next to him if he wanted to use it as a pillow, and took a seat on the back bench to watch the door and discourage anyone trying to come in.

The chapel was empty save for the harsh, rattling breaths from the former Templar.

“Fuck,” Cullen swore quietly. “Fuck.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that here,” called Dorian lightly, and he was rewarded with a dry chuckle.

Cullen’s breath evened out, and Dorian suspected he was trying to sleep, or maybe pray. He didn’t break the silence, but neither did he leave. He felt he couldn’t, until Cullen was either demonstrably better, or someone came for him.

Dorian stared up at the statue. It felt like there should be stained glass in here, even though it was the twin of the room next door, which held the Eluvian.

Fuck indeed. He did…he did _believe._ He didn’t _mean_ to. It wasn’t something he actively _thought_ about. But he believed there was a woman called Andraste whose husband had led a war to betray her, to burn her alive. That her ashes…there had been something, he had heard something about Leliana and –

The door behind him opened, and Dorian turned, preemptively to call out that this was a private prayer session – if that was even real – but it was Lavellan. Her face was drawn and concerned, and she looked at Dorian for some sort of confirmation.

He nodded once, and when they both looked, he could see Cullen was sitting, his legs in front of him, against the first pew, staring up at Andraste. He turned to look down the aisle, and his face broke.

Lavellan walked quickly, confidently, lightly. Then she dropped to her knees, raising a hand to his face.

“You once comforted me in this place,” she said, her voice low. “Let me do the same.”

Dorian didn’t stay to hear more, but carefully shut the door to the chapel behind him and set a simple locking spell on the outside. It wouldn’t stick for those inside, but no one could get in from the outside.

He stared around the bright sky in the garden. It seemed incongruous that it was still day, still afternoon. It felt that it should be very late, because he was very tired.

Almost without thinking about it, Dorian tried the next door, and it opened easily beneath his hand.

The room was dimmer than the courtyard, but the Eluvian was still uncovered, still swirling blue and indigo in its magnificent gilt frame. Dorian regarded it silently, then, knowing it was hopeless, he walked forward and put his hand against the glass.

It took a moment for his brain to understand.

He had been so focused on the glass he knew would be there, he blinked when his hand passed straight through, like smoke. He pulled it back out, astonished.

“It won’t work.”

Dorian spun on his heel, nearly tripping on the back of his robes.

“Morrigan,” he said crisply, trying to recover some of his calm. Then: “What?”

“I’ve uncoupled it.”

Dorian knew she must be freezing in her outfit, and yet she showed no sign of discomfort in the slightest, merely raising a dark eyebrow over a hawk-like eye.

“Un…coupled it?” he repeated dumbly. “But it’s on. It’s activated.”

“Yes. It’s on the network now. This will take you to a waystation. A sort of nexus of Eluvians.”

“But…but Tevinter,” he said stupidly. At least it sounded better than: _the closet_.

“I’m sure it’s out there somewhere,” Morrigan waved a breezy hand. “You’re more than welcome to try your luck. But some of them are locked from one side, and it’s difficult to remember where you came from.”

Dorian stared at her, dumbfounded.

“Well, go on then, you’ve been pushing in here for months now. I thought you’d be happy.” She flapped a hand at him, like he really might just walk through a magical mirror to Maker knows where without any supplies or saying goodbye.

“Fine,” Morrigan rolled her eyes. “But don’t come in here again. I’ve got my eye on this place, and I’m not hooking them back together.”

Dorian didn’t know what he did. Said something, certainly. Perhaps agreed. He only knew he had brushed past her and was processing his life in flashes. Up the stairs. On the battlements. Leaning out. Watching the Chargers spar. Going to the barn. Staring numbly at Blackwall. Going up to the hayloft and sitting in the hay with a cloud of dust, just like he had on that night he couldn’t sleep.

It seemed so long ago now, but it wasn’t even a year.

 _Your father is dying_ , his brain informed him, to pile onto misery.

 _Good_ , he thought back viciously. Then added guilt to the mix.

Dorian wasn’t sure how long he laid there. He might have slept, but it seemed like he only stared at the wooden slats of the ceiling, watching the angle of the sun shifting across it, his brain buzzing and blank. It was one thing to know that he hadn’t figured out the way home _yet_ and another to think…he had thought… It was stupid now. Pointless. But he had been half toying with the idea of how to come home once he was in Tevinter. A way to keep Bull happy.

He knew, though they hadn’t mentioned it in the more than week since, that Bull wasn’t coming. It wasn’t fair to the Chargers. They had a reputation. A lucrative contract with the Inquisition. Bull was someone important here. What could Dorian offer him? Life as a private guard? As an exiled qunari? And Krem would leave. Bull would hate it.

There was a rustling sound, and Dorian frowned. It reminded him so much of the day he had killed someone for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he had actually fallen asleep and had dreamed so much time passing. Sometimes it certainly felt like a dream, even if his attraction to the mercenary captain was a bit embarrassing.

He looked over, realizing as his neck screamed at him this was the first he had moved in hours.

The Iron Bull was sitting quietly on a crate, scraping mud off his boots with the side of his knife.

“How long have you been here?” Dorian asked, surprised. He knew Bull could move softly when he wanted to, but he hadn’t even heard him approach.

“A while. I saw you with Cullen, thought you sent a sign.”

Dorian remembered the arm around Cullen’s shoulders. He frowned. “He’s not doing so well today. Lavellan is with him. And you didn’t need to sit here. You should have shaken me awake.”

“You weren’t asleep.”

“Then you should have just – I don’t know – nudged me with your boot.”

“You weren’t _here_.”

Dorian froze, then slowly sat up, his face wary.

Bull had sheathed his knife under his shoulder strap and was regarding Dorian seriously over his hands, elbows on his knees as he leaned down. “I came to check on you,” he added, unnecessarily.

Dorian felt something hot and strange crawl up in his heart. “Amatus,” he managed, but then stopped, shaking his head. It wasn’t fair to call Bull that, even if he didn’t speak Tevene. It wasn’t fair to pretend and wish and hope when he was so achingly aware it would be for naught.

He smiled. By Bull’s critical eye raking his face, he knew it wasn’t very good. “I’m hungry,” he said instead. It was an easy way to comfort Bull: giving him tangible problems to solve. Bull liked solving problems, and Dorian knew all too well that so many of his own were unsolvable.

“Come on,” said Bull at last. He was always kind. Always willing to pretend, if Dorian really needed it. He was absurdly intuitive about when to push and when to stop: the difference between want and need. “I know just the place.”

Dorian smiled in tired amusement at the joke, and let Bull slap his robes free of straw and dust before he quickly stepped in, resting his forehead against Bull’s chest.

“What-“ Bull began.

“Please,” Dorian said, his voice small. He couldn’t even articulate what he wanted: somehow for Bull to make everything better. “Please.”

Bull’s arms went around him, his mouth to the top of Dorian’s head. Dorian could feel the increased warmth, but also hear the loud pounding of Bull’s heartbeat, comforting and familiar, while Bull breathed heavy and worried into his hair.

Dorian broke away first, reaching a hand to Bull’s jaw, something fierce and tender and eye-pricking swimming behind his eyes. “I need,” he began, and squeezed slightly at Bull’s start of a smile. He wanted Bull to be serious.

“Amatus,” he said again. This time, it called for it. “I need _you._ ”

Bull’s pupil dilated wide and dark, and he gathered Dorian in his arms and kissed him.

* * *

“You speak Tevene,” said Bull casually as they leaned against the bar.

Krem clapped his hands over his ears. “No! No, no, no, no, _no._ Chief, I am not translating the filthy things you want –“

“Shut up,” said Bull easily. “I wanted to ask you a word, but I can find somebody else.”

“Oh yeah?” said Krem, lowering his hands and frowning suspiciously. “Who here speaks Tevene except me and Dorian?”

“Vivienne might know some words.” This was a wild guess at random, based on Vivienne’s education and social circles. “Maybe Solas. Josephine.”

“Fuck, now you’ve got me curious,” Krem groaned, taking the sandwich that Cabot had slid across the bar for their lunch. He glared under his eyebrows at the Iron Bull then gestured. “Go on. What is it?”

“Amatus. He said it twice. What? Is it bad?”

Krem had choked on his drink at the phrase, and Bull frowned. It hadn’t _seemed_ like the fifty or so swear translations he had checked it against, even the really descriptive and creative ones.

“No, it’s not…it’s not what you think,” Krem finished wiping his mouth, frowning. “Twice?”

Bull nodded.

“What the fuck have you got yourself into, Chief?”

“Krem _what does it mean_.” Bull rarely got growly with anyone but Krem, and Krem was unphased by his threat.

He waved a hand. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“ _Krem_.”

“You wouldn’t! Not something you learn about in the Qun.”

“Like…magic stuff?”

“Fuck, you idiot,” Krem said in exasperation, trying and failing for the third time to take a bite of his sandwich. He shoved it in his mouth, cheeked it, and then sputtered: “It’s a term of endearment, are you happy now?”

“What? Like a pet name?”

Krem threw down his sandwich in real disgust. “I can’t believe I have to explain this to you!”

“I don’t know what I’m doing!” Bull was getting testy, his voice getting louder.

“That’s obvious!”

“Shut up and _tell_ me!”

“It means he _loves_ you, you stupid ox!”

Bull, who had been on the verge of yelling, blinked his one good eye. “Huh?”

“It means – I don’t know – _all my heart_ or _beloved_ or some such nonsense like that. It’s a term you only use with one person. The person you’re in love with. Not just endearment you throw around like love or my dear.”

“Dorian…loves…me…”

“Go be weird in your room,” said Krem grouchily, sliding onto a bar stool to eat and turning his back on the Iron Bull. “You’re being really weird.”

Bull followed the advice, locking himself in his room with the idea of pacing. But all he did was lay in his bed and smell Dorian on his sheets.

Dorian loved him. Bull had known _he_ had loved Dorian, but the reverse?

He breathed out a long, shaky breath, and went to find him. He was going to take Dorian apart all afternoon, and then massage his weekly stress out of him until he could sleep without snoring. They had discovered Dorian didn’t snore when his shoulders were finally able to touch the bed at the same time, and not tightening up his airways.

Also, Bull was going to fuck him into the floor.

* * *

"I'm not the one to ask," Dorian said hastily, when Lavellan looked at him over her shoulder. "The well of all elven experience? I wouldn't take it, as a human."

Morrigan shot a venemous look over her shoulder.

Solas began to talk over her as he and Morrigan argued.

Dorian glanced at Bull, who shrugged minutely.

They were all pretty cut up from the fighting it had taken to get here. Dorian had lost track of how long the day had been. They had woken in tents at a camp, and as soon as the sun was up, Lavellan had picked her team. Solas was first picked, for his experience, but when Lavellan had inclined her head at Sera, Sera had flatly refused.

"I'm not going just because I'm an elf. That's specist, that is."

"Sera," said Lavellan wearily, scratching at the shaved half of her scalp, then sighed: "Fine. Give me Bull and Dorian as a team."

"Inquisitor," Cassandra had immediately protested. She wanted to protect Lavellan herself, at all costs.

Lavellan gave her a crooked smile. "Who will lead the rest of the troops to fight the red templars?" She slapped a backhand across the commander's stomach: "Cullen?"

Cullen, who had been trying to take a bite of oatmeal, didn't know whether to look pained or injured.

Cassandra looked Cullen over coolly, the way someone with a decade more experience liked to do. "Fine," she said shortly. "Then I want Blackwall as well."

"Take Varric," said Lavellan, ignoring the flat irritation on Cassandra's face. "And you'd best take Vivienne, as the remaining mage."

"I'm flattered," Vivienne said, very dryly.

"What about me?" asked Sera mulishly.

"You didn't want to come," Lavellan reminded her.

"Yeah, but I don't want to be paired up with _it_ , either." Sera jerked a thumb at Cole.

"Mind Cassandra," Lavellan said.

Sera stuck out her tongue.

"But consider this free reign to wreak as much havoc and use as many bombs as you both want," Lavellan said with a smile, ignoring Cassandra's outraged intake of breath.

Sera grinned back. "Deal."

Dorian tried to focus through the arguing voices by the Well. There had been fighting. A long hike down splashing near a river. The bottoms of his robes were still damp. Pockets of templars and then the Temple of Mythal, which Solas opined so much about that everyone tuned him out, even Lavellan, until the fight with Samson.

Even Morrigan hadn't taken the fight as well as could be expected. Before they found the temple, she was moodly and sullen, and Dorian had managed to bait her. "I hope you're right about this temple, Morrigan. I could use a building or two."

She had scowled, shaking mud off her boots as they slogged up an incline. "Do the woods discomfort you, Pavus?"

 _Ah,_ _last names_. Dorian had been pleased for such an easy way to get under her skin. He had grinned at her, past the Iron Bull, who was struggling not to smile. "It's mostly the people trying to cut our heads off that manage that."

Bull was still bleeding. He had been cleaved up pretty badly from some of the red lyrium monstrosities, but Solas had at least stopped them from killing him.

Dorian had hardly any magic left, and Bull had waved him off when he approached to try to close over some of the wounds.

"Leave them," he had said. "We'll need it later."

Dorian hadn't argued. He was nearly tapped out from lighting the veilfire braziers and setting so many simultaneous fire mines.

So deeply were Solas and Morrigan arguing, and so checked out was Dorian, that they all missed when Lavellan bent down, took off her boots, and waded into the Well of Sorrows.

"Wait-" Morrigan snapped, but Solas held her back by one arm. It was incongrous to Dorian that such a slight man could hold back Morrigan, but she stilled beneath his touch, her face murderous.

There was a blinding flash of light, and then -

"Boss?" Bull's voice was panicked. "What is it?"

Lavellan was kneeling in the bottom of the empty well. One sip and it was gone. She was holding her head, tears streaming down her face.

Solas had vaulted into the empty space and dropped to a crouch next to her, his hands bracketing her temples as she bent over, trying to heal something unseen.

"It's so...so much..." she whispered.

"You fool," Morrigan said furiously. "You're not even a mage! This could drive you mad!"

"Be quiet," Solas said, and it was a Word of Command.

Dorian had never felt such a powerful compulsion brush past him. He wasn't sure if it had taken hold or not, because Morrigan turned away, stalking out of their immediate vicinity.

It was several long minutes of Solas crouching next to Lavellan before she lifted her head, her eyes seeking out first Dorian, then the Iron Bull. She held her hand out to him, and Solas pulled her to her feet, his face relieved.

"I-I'm okay, I think," she said, holding both arms out to Bull, who lifted her as easily as a child over the rim of the empty well. "Let's go...I don't want to be here anymore."

"Agreed," sighed Dorian, who had already shocked the bottoms of his feet nearly numb in the stupid tile maze earlier.

Morrigan appeared at the outside of the temple, some of her calm regained.

Lavellan looked to him pleadingly. "Dorian, will you get the cart?"

Dorian nodded without arguing. Solas was a mage, in case Morrigan turned. Bull was strong. He was just the extra.

"Thank you," Lavellan called after his back.

Dorian picked his way out of the shrine and the ruins and began the hike towards the camp site. This was going to infuriate Corypheus. Dorian felt himself smile even as his heart ached. He was tired. He wanted to cloister himself in a tent with Bull and curl up next to him. Lavellan was kind enough that she had given them their own to share, which seemed to irk Solas to no end. But he didn't blame Lavellan for wanting to leave. It was a six day ride by cart from the Arbor Wilds back to Skyhold, and the faster they could retreat with their prize, the better.

It would only be difficult to be so near Bull, and so unable to touch him.

Dorian's head spun as he weakly oriented himself towards camp. There was a roaring sound in the distance, like a dragon, and a strong gust of wind through the trees. He was running back before he knew what he was doing. They were alone. Just the four of them against a dragon, and Solas, at least, as equally tired as he was. Bull was in rough shape, Lavellan weak - at the mercy of Morrigan, whom Dorian didn't trust.

He was far, far too late. He knew that, rationally, but he couldn't slow down. He kept fade-stepping one more burst, and when he ran out of magic, he fade-stepped again anyway, using his body's energy instead. He burst through the archway to the shrine to take in the tableau.

The four were sitting, unharmed, on the grass, staring at him.

"Dorian?" asked Lavellan. "What's wrong?"

"D-dragon," Dorian stammered, winded. He was bent half over his knees, holding himself up with one hand against the pillar. His head was catching up to him with a wheezing sound like a migraine accordion, each fade-step slamming into him and crumpling him a bit at a time.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. " _That_ was no dragon. _That_ was my mother."

Dorian didn't know what to say to that, he only felt himself tipping absurdly toward the grass, his hands too slow to catch him as the others exclaimed in surprise.

"Dorian!" He'd know Bull's voice anywhere, but when he tried to look up, to reassure him, there was only darkness.

* * *

The Iron Bull stretched his legs out sideways in the cart, so that no one could get to Dorian, up near the front.

They were all caravanning back to Skyhold, and Sera was wrapped in a blanket, shivering as she blinked owlishly at him. She kept scooting along the bed of the cart towards him hopefully.

At last, Bull uncrossed his arms, and opened one towards her.

Sera scooted the last few feet under his arm and sighed at his warmth as he folded his arm back around her.

"Is he still out?" she asked, unnecessarily, as Dorian had not moved in a day and a half.

"Yeah."

"But Solas says he'll be fine," Sera said confidently. "Right prig, that one, but he knows his stuff."

"Yes," Bull said tersely. He didn't want to talk about Dorian. Didn't want to think about how Dorian had pushed himself too far, and Bull had't noticed, hadn't protected him. Even from himself.

Solas was meditating in the back of the cart. He hadn't wanted to leave Lavellan, and Lavellan hadn't wanted to leave Dorian.

She and Cullen were sleeping spooned together on the bed of the cart as the moon rose. Sometimes, when Cullen's nightmares became too strong, she woke automatically, attuned even to his breathing, to tell him to roll over, that he was snoring.

Cullen didn't snore.

He never complained though, turning on a hip and murmuring a sleepy apology.

Sera misconstrued where Bull was staring. "Eerie, that one," she sighed, not at all fondly. "Does he _ever_ sleep?"

Solas had never taken to Sera, but regarded her constantly with a pitying, strained expression.

"He sleeps," Bull assured her. He would know. He hadn't slept since Dorian went out. He was desperately tired, but angry at himself for not watching out more for his lover. He knew Dorian. Knew he'd push himself too hard without complaint. Bull was supposed to watch out for that.

"Well I'm not going to sleep," Sera declared, pillowing her head against Iron Bull.

"Good," said Bull, smiling slightly. "You don't have to."

Within an hour of half drowsy protestations that she was not falling asleep, Sera had slid down to the cart bed and was dead to the world.

In another hour, Solas had laid himself on one of the narrow benches Bull could barely fit his ass on much less his entire body. The elf laid both hands across his chest like a burial tomb and closed his eyes.

Bull watched Dorian’s face in the light of the waning moon.

Stupid and sloppy. Like the night when someone had safeworded out. Lavellan was his priority, yes, but he had been distracted by Morrigan. By the woman who was not a dragon. He hadn’t thought to meet Dorian halfway, to tell him they were all right. Dorian probably thought they were dying somewhere.

Solas’ words came back to him: _he burned some of his body for magic_.

The Iron Bull sighed out. His eyes hurt. His head was killing him. His cuts had scabbed over with help from healing potions, but were taking longer to heal due to being sliced with red lyrium. Solas had performed a very thorough and agonizing inspection of the inside of the wounds, debriding them with handfuls of ice chips to make sure no slivers of lyrium were stuck in his body. He dropped his head in his hands, feeling his neck protest with the strain.

He had trained for this. He could stay up another night.

“Bull?” the croaking word shot through his heart as surely as any arrow.

“Dorian,” he said, his voice low and suddenly warped with something. “Hey. Hey, don’t get up. You’re fine. Lavellan’s fine. We’re all fine.”

“What- about-“

Bull hated that he was so callous as to forget about water. His hands were shaking so badly that when he unstoppered the waterskin it got all over his pants.

“Thanks,” Dorian said, his voice still cracked as he blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dark. “Are you okay?”

“Oh,” said Bull, and then stopped. It was impossible to answer this question. He rested a heavy hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“What’s wrong?” Dorian’s voice was stronger, and Bull hushed him.

“Everyone else is asleep.”

“Help me sit up.”

“No, you shouldn’t-“

“Help me or don’t,” said Dorian, his voice steely, “But I’m sitting up.”

Bull helped him sit up, and was surprised when Dorian grabbed one of his horns, dragging his face close for inspection in the darkness.

The Iron Bull held perfectly still, trying to keep the squirming, howling loss he had almost experienced from showing in his face.

“Put me in your lap,” Dorian said, still hanging onto one of Bull’s horns, the way he did when they were really pushing the envelope of possible positions.

Without question, the Iron Bull swung Dorian’s legs crossways over his lap and scooted Dorian into his chest.

Dorian let go, and Bull’s head felt suddenly reeling and loose without the anchor. Instead, Dorian dragged Bull’s arms around him, and tilted his head into Bull’s chest.

“Okay,” he said, seemingly pleased. “Go ahead.”

“Go ahead?” Bull tried to tease him, but his voice was still warped with something.

Dorian managed, somehow, to out wait him.

Bull dipped his head into Dorian’s hair and breathed heavily into it. Maker’s ass, he was glad Dorian was alive. He was so, stupidly glad.

“Kadan,” he murmured into Dorian’s scalp. “You are a wonder. But _never_ scare me like that again.”

“I wouldn’t have needed to,” said Dorian severely. “If Morrigan’s mother wasn’t some great bloody dragon.”

Bull laughed soft and low into Dorian’s hair, and realized at some point he had started crying when Dorian was skating soft thumbs over the back of his grasping hands. He was holding onto Dorian like he might break apart if Dorian wasn’t perfectly filling the empty curve of him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dorian whispered in a half laugh. “And by the smell of you, you’re doing terribly.”

Bull laughed into Dorian’s neck, kissing him fervently, quietly, his lips only whispers in the dark with none of the wet.

“I am,” he admitted at last. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

“Sleep then,” said Dorian. “I’ll be here.”

“I’m not letting go,” Bull warned, who was already tipping his head against the bench seat.

Dorian’s voice was a smile in the darkness. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

And that’s how Sera, snickering, found them: Bull sitting up, cradling Dorian to his chest. They were both snoring fit to bursting.

* * *

“I don’t like it,” Dorian said angrily as they lay in his bed. He had insisted on it as a point of vanity. His headboard was a ruin.

“I know,” said Bull quietly.

“Shut up,” said Dorian severely. “You’re pleased you get to go.”

“Kick Corypheus in the nuts? Yeah, I’m fucking thrilled.”

“Don’t be a smart ass, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m sorry I’m encroaching on your territory,” Bull smiled, turning on his side in bed to look down at Dorian.

“ _You’re_ excited because there will be a lyrium dragon. And some other dragon or something, I don’t know. Lavellan didn’t make sense about her trip through the Eluvian.”

He tensed in the bed, hating that he had thrown up a casual red flag about his thoughts, because Bull had gone very still.

“I’d just rather be with you, is all,” Dorian ended, grumbling.

“Me too,” said Bull. “Then I could make sure you were safe, instead of wondering.”

“Rude. I’m a good fighter.”

“I know.”

Dorian peered out from under an eyebrow to make sure Bull wasn’t being sarcastic, then resumed his tirade, though they could both hear it winding down.

“The Valley of Sacred Ashes. I don’t want you to-“

“I know, Kadan.”

“Kadan,” quoted Dorian sourly. “You know, I’ve never asked you what it means.”

“It means the same thing as Amatus."

Dorian reared up on an elbow, horrified. “You _knew?_ All this time and you knew?”

“Of course I knew,” said Bull, waving a hand. “What kind of spy would I be if I didn’t know?”

Dorian smacked him on the shoulder, then, deciding it wasn't enough, climbed on top of him.“You’ve tricked me,” he said, glowering down as Bull stretched long and luxuriously beneath him, flexing his back and pulling his arms overhead in an insouciant show of nonchalance.

“Are you going to punish me?” Bull said pleasantly, and Dorian knew they both felt his hips tense against Bull’s stomach.

The Iron Bull smiled more widely.

“I will hurt you,” snapped Dorian.

“I might like that.”

“I know what I’ll do,” smiled Dorian. “And you don’t get a say.”

“Don’t I?” Bull’s voice was dark.

“No touching,” Dorian smiled grimly. “Only I get to touch you, and you have to watch.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Oh, you mean if you _lose_?” Dorian mocked, an edge to his voice. “Then you’ll give me your spot in Lavellan’s crew.”

The Iron Bull actually growled low in his throat, while Dorian pushed his tongue around his mouth, tasting the victory.

Dorian began slowly. Bull was mad at him, and his body was tense and unyielding beneath his fingers, his mouth refusing to respond. But if he had learned anything from the Iron Bull these past nine months, it was how to be patient. And he knew Bull’s body very well now, even when Bull wasn’t forthcoming. Knew he liked to have his scars traced by Dorian’s fingers, and even better, his tongue. Knew the inside of his thighs were the only tender skin left on him. Knew slow kisses to his hurt knee made him bend it in sudden shyness. That his large shoulders and corded iron of his neck could be massaged out and turn soft under Dorian’s careful sucking. He knew Bull liked it when Dorian ran his hands up and down Bull’s thighs in time to his thrusting in the air, so that Bull’s eye was drawn to Dorian crouching over him, sloping down to rub their slick and sweaty chests against one another.

When Dorian locked his mouth to the underside of Bull’s jaw, Bull finally capitulated with a huffing groan into Dorian’s hair.

“You can kiss me, still,” he whispered into Bull’s ear.

The Iron Bull responded gladly, and Dorian smiled, feeling the tensing of splayed fingers against the mattress where Bull wanted to grab him, tumble him beneath, do to Dorian what Dorian was doing to him.

“When I get back,” Bull swore as his hips bucked up beneath Dorian. Dorian had finally moved his hands to the swelling length of him, and Bull was trying hard not to let his breath stutter. “You are going to be in so much trouble.”

“Really?” Dorian grinned. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m going to tie you up, first of all,” Bull growled. “Because I don’t trust you to have the kind of self control that – “ He gasped as Dorian slithered down his body and took him in his mouth.

“Oh?” said Dorian, wetly dropping the tip of him. “You were saying?”

The Iron Bull bared his teeth in his patented not-smile, reading a threat, and Dorian felt something hot and wet squirming in his belly.

“Tie you up,” Bull grunted, as Dorian resumed his sucking. “And then – going to – to – fuck, Dorian. Going to take you apart slowly. And I won’t let you – you – come at all. Fuck! You’re going to hate me. I’m going to make you _beg_. I’m – fuck.”

Dorian pulled off with a wet slurp and reached for the oil. “That’s very sweet,” he said brightly. “So I suppose that will be sufficient motivation for surviving the final confrontation.”

Bull gripped the sheets in fists as Dorian took his time, hand over hand, pulling up his shaft so that it was erect and glistening.

“I didn’t prep myself, you know,” he said mournfully. He was still stretched a bit from the last go-round from Bull’s fingers, but they hadn’t done this today. “So I will have to go excruciatingly slowly.”

Bull began to calmly curse in a string of Qunlat. His jaw was tight, and his eye squeezed shut as Dorian spread himself obscenely while facing the Iron Bull. Bull was flat on his back, and Dorian lowered himself to the tip and hissed, flexing against it.

Bull’s hands came up off the bed, like he was going to grip Dorian’s thighs. But trembling, slowly, he closed them into fists midair.

Dorian let Bull stretch him open, and it took him a whole minute to work his way down to Bull’s hips, and he knelt, trembling, watching the sweat standing out against Bull’s chest, one fist up to his mouth so he could bite down on a knuckle.

“Doing okay?” Dorian’s voice wasn’t teasing now. He was checking, seriously.

Bull glanced at him gratefully. He nodded, just a little, and Dorian smiled.

He pushed himself back up and set a slow pace. He was focusing more on pulling Bull off than seeking his own pleasure, but it was impossible with his prostate being pressed at every moment by Bull’s thick tip not to cry out, dribbling slowly as he pushed himself onwards, cum dripping out of him with every shove. 

Dorian was tired and over sensitive, but he was stubborn. He didn’t want to concede defeat, and so he kept pushing, moving faster now, his hands anchored on Bull’s chest for balance, while Bull tensed beneath him, trying not to come, gnashing his teeth and his hands reaching above his head to hold onto the headboard. There was a crack where he snapped a piece off, and Dorian dropped his face into Bull’s neck and laughed.

And while he was laughing, and Bull was scenting his hair, Dorian felt the release untwanging in Bull’s hips beneath him, filling him hot and full before Bull groaned.

“Good show,” Dorian praised, slowly pulling himself free, and then rolling on his side. Or, trying to roll.

The Iron Bull’s arm like a bar came up and held him in place, laying over the small of his back. Dorian squirmed in spite of himself. He did love when Bull handled him.

“Please,” Bull asked, in a whisper that surprised Dorian. He had expected Bull to be angry at the abstention. He hadn’t expected the tight chest, the shallow breaths, Bull’s hands running down his back like he was something beautiful.

Dorian laid his hot face into Bull’s collarbone so he didn’t have to make eye contact.

“You have to promise me,” he said into Bull’s skin. “That you’ll come back to me.”

Neither of them mentioned that no matter what happened, their relationship would be over. Dorian would return to Tevinter.

The Iron Bull still had his hands digging into the skin of Dorian’s back, holding him like he might turn to smoke.

He kissed Dorian’s temple, and Dorian found his throat suddenly close and full.

In a quiet, solemn whisper, Bull promised.

“I’ll come back to you.”

* * *

The Iron Bull watched Solas pick up the orb in his hands.

“It’s broken,” he said, his voice flat, but inflected with something Bull couldn’t name.

Lavellan was holding her wrist with the anchor tight with the other hand, grimacing as she bent at the waist to check Corypheus’ body.

“Boss?”

“I’m okay,” she said tightly.

Bull heard what she meant: _I’m alive._

“I think Bianca broke a bowstring,” said Varric into the silence, his voice trying to fill the space, even in the gloaming twilight.

“You did great, Varric,” said Lavellan gratefully, staggering to her feet.

Footsteps, hurrying up the stone, and Bull turned to see the others, led by Dorian, his eyes bright.

“Look at you,” Bull forced his voice to sound light. “Not dead, and everything.”

Dorian dropped his staff and leapt into Bull’s arms, making him stagger.

“Good job, kadan,” he whispered softly into Dorian’s hair.

“Where is Solas?” asked Lavellan, looking around.

Everyone else had been staring at Bull and Dorian, and they glanced around, concerned.

“I’m sure he will turn up at camp,” said Cassandra decidedly, after turning a few unlikely looking corpses over with the toe of her boot.

The Iron Bull glanced at Lavellan, who gave him a pained look of acknowledgment.

Solas wasn’t coming back.

* * *

“I don’t ever think I’ve seen you sit for so long,” Dorian teased.

Bull grunted, taking up his twelfth glass of wine.

They were in the Great Hall, watching idly as Lavellan flitted from group to group. It was officially a celebration, but her words and thanks made it feel like a goodbye. Dorian had found Bull deep in his cups at the head of a table. Krem had tried to wave him away.

“He gets like this, sometimes,” Krem whispered to Dorian. “Don’t mind him. He’ll sober up.”

But Bull had seen Dorian and pulled him bodily into his lap. He hadn’t let Dorian get up even after an hour. Dorian’s ass was numb.

“Bull, let me up,” he said for the fifth time, attempting to wriggle free.

The Iron Bull didn’t even look at him, only kept his bar of an arm around Dorian’s waist and kept drinking.

“It’s not funny anymore,” Dorian snapped at last. “You know how I get about not being able to get away.”

This, at least, moved Bull’s fingers as his eye refocused. He looked ashamed. He gestured Dorian to lean in to hear him, though Bull’s breath was so foul, it was hard to look him in the eye without Dorian's own eyes watering.

“I’m sorry,” Bull said, his voice very drunk. “But if you leave now, I won’t see you again.”

Dorian swallowed hard.

They had both been thinking it, of course, even in the midst of the victory. Corypheus was dead, and Dorian’s father was dying. He needed to start for Tevinter. It was a very long three months to get there by horse. And he was going without Iron Bull.

Dorian hadn’t asked Bull again, and Bull had never given a formal answer, but they both knew. The Inquisition was still important: it would still have goals to accomplish. Lavellan and Cullen were still retaining their position as Inquisitor and Commander, respectively. Leliana had been tapped to become Divine, and they needed a spymaster. It was a logical choice, and a huge promotion. Krem and the Chargers would still report to him, of course, but Bull wasn’t as young as he was, and though he never said anything, Dorian could tell when he was relieved to spot camps at night, his knee swollen and his ankle filled with fluid from the inflammation.

Dorian kissed the top of Bull’s head. “I’m going to be in your bed until the last possible moment,” he vowed. “Until they get me on that cart.”

The Iron Bull was never good at dealing with difficult emotions. He mostly used pain to circumnavigate them, but Dorian supposed wine would do the trick nicely. Dorian nodded to Krem, who nodded back, understanding what Dorian was asking.

He’d get Bull to bed.

Dorian made his way to his rooms first. They were just the same as they ever were, but there was a large leather sack at the foot of his bed, and a sturdy wooden trunk. The trunk would be shipped more slowly, by caravan. It seemed pointless to put it off, and Dorian felt a restless, panicked energy that if he didn’t start now, he would never be able to begin at all.

The trunk was the easier of the two. He stacked all the books neatly, and then started wrapping things in his winter clothes. He wouldn’t need many going up north, to where Tevinter was much warmer than the heathen south. He wrapped the inkwell Josephine had given him, and the pen Leliana had contributed, which had a secret compartment for notes. Vivienne had once gifted him a magnificent bright white cloak from a wyvern, taken from the beast Lavellan had killed for her. They both agreed on fashion, and he had been delighted to have something in her signature color. It was lined on the collar in fennec fur, and in it he wrapped two staffs, dismantled for their hafts and blades to keep them from scratching.

How had he collected so much in less than a year? It felt a whole life. Copies of Varric’s books, with the pages dog-eared for the sex he had personally inspired from his years in the Tevinter body houses. There were a series of shiny rocks Cole had found that “reminded him of Dorian’s clothes” which he had repeatedly asked were magic because of their color. Sera had given him a collection of labels peeled from brandy and alcohol bottles found tromping around with Lavellan, the ones with the truly hilarious names like _Little Tittle Bitters,_ which she had helpfully illustrated with cartoonishly round breasts. He was going to have them framed for his office and declare them high art. He couldn’t wait to send noble Tevene lords to the Red Jennys for commissions. Cassandra, in a fit of piety, had given him an illustrated copy of the Chant of Light, which was actually quite sweet, in her way, as Dorian didn’t have a copy from the white divine. It would be hilariously heretical back home, though he never quite managed to tell her so.

There were also just knickknacks, things he had picked up. A silver backed shaving mirror and a filigreed handled razor, plucked from Bonny Sims’ cart. A plain clay jug he wasn’t sure would survive the trip, but he had liked for its speckled pattern. Countless books from the library that would need to be returned. A candlestand and lamp he was fairly certain belonged with the room. But he took the bedspread, the blanket that was on his bed. He and the Iron Bull had been on top of it so many times, it reminded him of home, and he couldn’t leave it behind to be laundered and folded away.

 _Home_. He realized too late that he had come to think of Skyhold this way. He tried to imagine his estate. His apartment suite of rooms. The wide arched outer walks, the formal gardens, the hothouse fruit.

All he could think about is how lonely it would be.

So many slaves and servants, and only he and his father living there. Dorian had cluttered up his life before running away with debauchery and friends, whore houses and play houses, theater and academia. How pointless that all seemed now. Without the common goal of the Inquisition, Dorian felt unmoored. The Iron Bull should have been his anchor, but –

He tamped down his howl of selfishness. It wasn’t _fair_ to ask Bull to uproot his whole life. But he wanted Bull to do it anyway. Wanted him to love Dorian enough to walk away from everything for him.

How stupid. How bored and lonely Bull would be, knocking about with Dorian in their empty house.

 _Their_ house.

It was his father’s house. And his father’s disapproving stare.

He realized his clothes in the apple crates were all that were left. It would be nice, at least to be able to have a closet and chest of drawers again. Dorian shoved them all into the leather rucksack and slung it over his shoulder. He made his way down the hall, but left outside, rather than through the Great Hall or across Vivienne’s balcony, to avoid having to see people. Vivienne had rooms overlooking the courtyard, accessed by an open air walk. He passed her rooms, then Varric’s, and took the stairs up to the ramparts before circling around to find the half-crumbling tower attached to the Herald’s Rest.

Cole wasn’t in his usual place, hanging on the fringes of the party, smiling uncertainly at the inclusion. Dorian was relieved that few people looked up, despite the Rest being packed, filled to bursting with people drinking and celebrating, cheering, and partying. Normally, Dorian would be among them. He wondered at himself for turning into such a shut in as he let himself into the Iron Bull’s room.

It wasn’t locked. It never had been.

He slung his bag in a corner. He had meant what he said to Bull. He would live here until it was time to leave.

 _When is that?_ His mind asked nastily. _Tomorrow? First Light? Or a week from now? Or maybe a week after? It’s summer, you should wait for it to cool down. Maybe a month?_

Dorian scrubbed a hand over his face. The room was only wood on all sides, and kept out none of the raucous and loud noise from the press of people downstairs.

He sat on the bed. He had said something to Lavellan about a communication stone he might make her. He had talked to Dagna about it, or tried to. He had mostly walked in on Dagna flat on a table and Sera on her knees.

Sera had casually glanced over her shoulder and told him to “Take a walk, yeah?” and they’d have finished up in an hour or so.

Bull didn’t have anything like a bathtub, so Dorian heated water from the pitcher and wiped himself down with a rag before changing for bed. It was monstrously loud. He could barely hear for the sound. He carefully paced the tiny box of Bull’s room, even climbing on the bed, until he had walked a circle for the spell and activated the silence. It was almost worse to be left alone with his swirling thoughts and pounding heart.

He knew he would have to get up when Bull came in to sleep, and that made it hard to do, waking at every little noise despite knowing the silencing spell was still up. When the door was finally breached and the silencing spell broken, Dorian realized it must be close to dawn. The light outside in the Rest was grey and thick, and the bar blessedly quiet.

“You’re here,” Bull said, surprised and sagging against the doorframe.

He was staggeringly drunk.

Dorian rolled out of bed, then held his nose between pinched fingers, waiting for his vision to catch up.

“You okay?”

Bull tried to reach him, but staggered, and with some contortion and difficulty, Dorian managed to get Bull sitting on the bed. He knelt to pull off Bull’s boots and unbuckle the knee brace.

“You’re here,” Bull said again.

“I told you I would be,” Dorian was trying to keep his tone light instead of biting, but he wasn’t sure it was working.

“I thought you’d go.”

“I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“I waited up. I was afraid I’d miss you.”

“Well that was very stupid,” Dorian informed him, throwing the boots into a corner. “As I was waiting for you, here.”

The Iron Bull smiled, but Dorian pushed his face away as he moved up to unbuckle the shoulder harness. “None of that, you’re absolutely smashed.”

“Getting better.”

“You haven’t slept at all, and you reek.”

“You’re not my…my...”

Dorian’s fingers stilled on the buckles of the harness, and Bull let out an agonized breath of apology.

“No, it’s fine,” Dorian said testily. “Sleep. I’m not going anywhere today at least.”

“Your pack.” Bull, even drunk, knew everything in his room by heart.

“Yes,” said Dorian quietly. “I’ve packed.”

“Already?”

“I was worried if I waited, I – I couldn’t.”

“Dorian-“

“Don’t. Don’t, amatus. Don’t say it. Not really say it. If you really say it –“

“Would you stay?”

Dorian felt his face crumple. “Don’t,” he repeated instead. He didn’t want to find out.

He swung the Iron Bull’s legs into the bed and stared down at him.

“You’re not staying,” Bull observed, his voice suddenly more sober.

But Dorian could think of nowhere he wanted to go. Skyhold suddenly seemed a stranger to him, and every activity pointless and empty.

“No,” he said, softly climbing into bed. He pillowed his head against Bull's thundering heart. “But I’m here now.”

* * *

The Iron Bull knew he was not pretending very well.

Lavellan kept glancing at him surreptitiously. Sera and Vivienne were much more obvious about it. Cullen was doing the opposite: looking anywhere but at Bull, like that might give him some privacy. At least Varric was going with for part of the way.

Varric and Dorian would ride in a cart with a team of soldiers and scouts going to Val Royeaux. Once in the city, Josephine had organized for them to hop from estate to estate as guests until the Free Marches. Varric had invited Dorian to Kirkwall, where he would help outfit Dorian with a horse to take up through the Anderfells, and pick his way back towards Tevinter.

Bull didn’t like that he was going alone through so much territory, or that it would take so long, _or_ that he would pass Seheron. All of it made his stomach clench, but he also couldn’t accompany him.

“You’re in a good position to know I’m alive,” Dorian had told him drolly. “Since they all report to you now.”

Varric was already in the cart, leaning against Dorian’s wooden trunk. His own trunk was at his feet, so that the dwarf was bracketed on either side. He already had a journal and charcoal out on his lap, but was leaning over the side to talk to Cole, who had appeared to say goodbye. And to Cassandra, who was mutely furious about something or another. Bull had never quite figured out their relationship.

He forced his legs forward to walk up to the side of the cart. He had wanted the Chargers to accompany Dorian through Val Royeaux, but it had been Dorian himself who had declined. “A clean break, in our bed,” he had whispered the night before. “So it's just ours.”

Dorian had pretended to be asleep for hours, and then, when he thought the Iron Bull was asleep, he had cried silently into his pillow. Bull had only reached around and held him, his heart aching. It was so hard to love someone so much, and realize the world wouldn’t let them be together.

Dorian and Varric would leave together, and Skyhold would be two emptier. Solas had been the first to leave, but Morrigan hadn’t come back from the battle either, though no one had seen her slain. Blackwall had gone out within the next week, wandering the fields to recruit for the slaughtered Grey Wardens. He carried a letter from Leliana for the Hero of Fereldan, and for Blackwall’s safe conduct. She had left just after Blackwall, to be blessed as the Divine. 

Bull knew it was likely that Vivienne would leave next, when she and the others went to watch the ceremony. Vivienne would stay in Val Royeaux, then move back to the palace with Celene. And after she left, Cassandra would go too, to rebuild the Seekers. Although Bull knew Cole would stay, having nowhere else to go, and Josephine, Cullen, Lavellan, maybe even Sera, at least for a time. But she would peel off eventually.

The Iron Bull was aware of their shrinking family. Strange to think of them that way, but there it was. But his heart – his whole heart – was at the base of the cart, and his brown eyes had swallowed up all their flecks of green, dark and sad.

“Fuck,” Dorian said, twining his arms around Bull’s neck. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck.”

“I know,” Bull murmured into his skin. “I wish-“

“I know,” Dorian answered him. Then: “I left a present under your pillow.”

Bull’s heart leapt.

“No, it’s not that,” Dorian said quickly. “I couldn’t get the materials in time. I’m sorry. I’ll have to send it the long way. Maybe a few months from now.”

 _Months_. The agony of not talking to Dorian for _months_.

“We’ll get there in autumn,” Dorian was saying, cutting through Bull’s empty brain. None of this could be happening. None of it felt real. “And I’ll send a raven to the nearest carrier tower.”

Carrier towers were strung out along the countries in stations, teaching birds to fly back one to another. Leliana had showed Bull how to use the birds. He nodded. Helped Dorian with a hand into the cart. Time was leaping forward in small, uncontrollable bursts.

“Don’t look so sad, Tiny,” Varric said, attempting cheer. “I’ll take care of your mage friend.”

Bull only nodded shortly. His tongue felt thick and stupid.

Dorian was crying, but he kept brushing at his face as if scratching an itch, wicking away the tears. Lavellan was there, leaning in, hugging first Varric, then Dorian. Cullen handed Dorian a box, which he opened to reveal a brand new chess set. They hugged over the side of the cart, and suddenly it was moving, it was rolling.

There was no more time.

The Iron Bull kissed Dorian, kissed him and walked, and moved towards the bridge, though there wouldn’t be room for him down it. He was pulled off Dorian’s skin with a whispered word, the confession torn from his lips despite himself.

Dorian’s eyes were huge and stunned, and then the cart was too far away to follow, and the Iron Bull stood watching the snow far beneath him. He wondered how much it would hurt to fall into it.

Probably not at all.

Nothing in all his life, and in all his injuries, had ever hurt worse than this.

* * *

Dorian tried not to think. He was becoming very good at it.

The three months it had taken to get to Tevinter had not passed equally. In fact, the time it took to get to Val Royeaux had seemed to blink by in a stunned daze, Bull’s last words cutting through the air and into his heart.

They had sworn not to say them. Not to say _I love –_

The cart had pulled away too quickly, and they had stared at each other. The Iron Bull looking lost and forlorn, small against the grey stones of Skyhold’s Castle, his horns cocked to one side as if listening. Hoping. That maybe Dorian could call it back. That maybe he would get off and run back to him.

But he had done none of those things, only sat, stunned, until he realized Varric had been talking to him for a quarter of an hour. He had tried not to think.

The nobles had been kind, obsequious and tripping over themselves to make everything lavishly beautiful for the Inquisition, despite the fact neither he nor Varric belonged anymore. When they had reached Kirkwall, Dorian had been amazed at the work accomplished in rebuilding the city, until he had seen the slums, which were even worse than he remembered.

“Somebody has to clean this place up,” Varric had growled, irritated to see his favorite bar, _The Hanged Man_ , still wasn’t open even after a year and half.

Dorian had met Varric’s friends. Had smiled and shaken hands and gotten drunk and promptly forgotten all their names when he tried not to think. They were a blur of attributes. Red hair. The cheerful elf. The angry elf. A pirate. He had also been desperate to get out of Kirkwall by the second day. Varric kept apologizing the city wasn’t nicer, wasn’t better.

Dorian had lied about needing to get to his father. In actuality, Dorian wasn’t rushing home to see _him._ Varric had understood. While Dorian's trunk was packed on a boat from the docks to be sailed the long way round by sea, Dorian took the gift of a horse gratefully.

The mare was a placid, sweet creature, slightly too short for Dorian but a sorel of hardy stock. She had three white stockings up over her knees like a lady who had misplaced a glove. He had called her Benefaria, or _goodbye_ , because that’s what she represented.

Faria carried him more swiftly than he would have given her credit for, with an easy, frisky temper, happy to trot or push on during the day when Dorian felt antsy. They spent more than a month together, and Dorian tried to keep himself occupied bouncing on her back by dozing, trying not to think, and using all his nights to read and design and plan. It was better to use up the nights of stillness, mage light overhead, instead of trying to sleep. He had made that mistake the first week, and hadn’t stopped crying in the lonely interior of his tiny tent, scaring poor Faria half to death.

When he had finally arrived outside Minrathous and picked his way to the Pavus Estate, he had looked a wreck. He had lost all his muscle tone in his arms and shoulders, and hardly eaten anything save the unappetizing traveling cakes Varric had packed him. He was dirty and thin, and he saw the Seneschal look ready to turn him away before his face slackened in surprise.

“I’ve come to see my father,” Dorian said, interrupting him before the sputtering man could try to apologize for what had led to Dorian fleeing.

To the man’s credit, he merely nodded.

Halward Pavus was in his bedroom, sitting up in bed, working on a lapdesk. He looked almost as tired and ill as Dorian felt. There was no music to swell in the background, or long stirring looks of love. There was merely the formality of shaking hands, greeting one another with the fragile sort of truce they had bargained in the Gull & Lantern, and then Dorian had fallen asleep in the bathtub.

After the servants had prodded him into bed, he had set an alarm spell without even thinking and slept for seventeen hours uninterrupted, waking only for water and to eat another ration cake from his bag. It was only then he noticed they were _terrible_. He had eaten them for weeks without tasting. Then he had turned off his brain, turned off his hope. Tried not to think.

So here he was, not thinking, on the third day of being back ‘home.’ And he was staring at a mirror.

The tarp was back over it, though the table had been removed. With shaking fingers, Dorian pulled the tarp down. The mirror was just a mirror. It reflected Dorian’s half shadowed silhouette in the open door. He had no idea how to turn it on, or if Morrigan had even left the one in Skyhold connected. And hadn’t she uncoupled it? It would likely take weeks of searching to find the right door, if he ever did.

“I turned it off.”

Dorian spun on his heel, so shocked to be interrupted, he hadn’t heard his father’s cane coming down the tiled hallway. He had started to use one only recently. It was also a staff, set with a rune.

“What?”

“The mirror. I turned it off, after you went through.”

“So that I couldn’t come back?” Dorian asked, frowning.

“At first,” admitted his father, leaning an arm against the wall. “But I regretted my actions soon after, and when I turned it back on, it didn’t seem to be linked up anymore.”

“Yes,” said Dorian. “I know.”

“It doesn’t let me pass through. I don’t think it’s configured anywhere.”

“I know,” said Dorian. He had no idea how Morrigan “configured it to the nexus” much less how to do it himself.

“At the very least, the spell to turn it on is simple.”

“Why don’t you show me, then?” Dorian asked, his voice all edges.

To his surprise, his father did. Straightening and leaving the cane against the wall, he turned two halves of a circle between his hands, speaking the incantations clearly, though he could have used nonverbal spells.

The mirror fogged over, clouds roiling violet and black.

Dorian looked at his father, then looked at the mirror. “If I go through,” he said slowly. “Will you lock it again?”

“No.” His father blinked at him, suddenly looking haggard and very tired. “Will you come back?”

Dorian looked at him for a long time, weighing it in his mind. “Yes.”

* * *

The Iron Bull was sitting in Dorian’s seat by the library window.

The library wasn’t any less busy, but it still seemed emptier without the mage. Bull technically owned all of the third floor now, but it was murder on the knees to walk up and down. Vivienne, thawing an almost alarming and sentimentalist amount, had even invited him to take tea with her, the way Dorian would have.

Bull had declined. It would be too painful, for both of them, to mime the substitution.

Three and a half months, and no word yet from Tevinter.

They had received a letter from Varric, informing them that Kirkwall was still a disaster and a ruin, which had sent Cullen in a tailspin for nearly a week. It seemed like Varric had his work cut out for him, but he was cheerful enough to report sending Dorian on his way with a good horse and saddlebags full of a dwarven flatbread that Bull remembered trying to eat once. It had devolved into who could actually destroy the stuff with any weapon known to man.

“That’s my chair.”

Bull frowned, trying to make out the reflection in the window. It was strange, because the voice _sounded_ like –

“Are you going to kiss me, or not?”

The Iron Bull was up out of his chair like a shot, slamming Dorian into the nearest bookshelf, hiking him up his waist to pin him around his hips. He nearly had his hands inside Dorian’s clothes before he could even get a look at him.

“Dorian? Dorian! How did-“

“Morrigan, if you can believe it,” Dorian was laughing even as Bull bit down on his neck, in his favorite place. Bull could feel him hot and hard against him. “She must have recoupled the mirrors before she left. All I had to do from my side was turn it on.”

“Fuck,” Bull was sliding to the floor, pinning Dorian beneath him, his hands skimming over Dorian’s body, taking in the new shape of him. Dorian was thin. Bull didn’t like how thin he had grown. His shoulders were knotted with tension and stiff and awkward. By the way Dorian was shifting on the thin rug, his entire back was one solid ache.

“Your beard,” Bull managed, pulling back to see.

“Oh, isn’t it beastly?” Dorian grinned. “It was too much of a waste of time to shave on the road, and Father hated it so much I thought I’d keep it a few days.”

“I like it,” Bull growled.

“Well don’t,” said Dorian, chuckling. “Because it’s going to be taken off as soon as I –“

“Dorian?”

Bull did _not_ want to let anyone else see Dorian while he was busy with him, nevermind they were in public. But Dorian’s face lit up with such hopefulness that the Iron Bull obligingly tilted a shoulder so that Vivienne could see.

“Dorian! What are you – _what are you doing?_ ” Her voice abruptly changed midsentence to authoritarian, raking over the two of them.

“I’ve just arrived,” Dorian said breathlessly, pushing at Bull to let him sit up. “Through the Eluvian.”

The Iron Bull reluctantly rolled off of him, but kept a hand on Dorian’s thigh so he couldn’t disappear.

“You look awful, my dear.”

Dorian laughed, and Bull wanted to laugh, but everything in his throat seemed like he might start screaming at any moment, and his room was too far away, and Dorian’s was just down the hall, even though it was strange and empty and –

“Can we have tea?” Dorian asked cheerfully, being dragged up by the wrists.

Bull was not being gentle. He was too impatient. He was half-carrying Dorian across Vivienne’s balcony as she trailed them with ill-concealed amusement.

“Of course, my dear. I’ll make sure there are scones and honey. Do try to dress for the event, and for the love of the Maker’s bride, shave off that horrible beard!”

Bull only set Dorian down when he could tumble him into the bed, and didn’t wait for Dorian to speak.

“I love you,” he mumbled into Dorian’s skin. “Fuck. I’m sorry I didn’t come with you. I should have. I love you.”

“I love you too," said Dorian, then arched nearly off the bed when Bull ripped off his shirt to get a look at him. "And- and don’t be stupid,” he panted. “You didn't need to come with me. I've worked it all out. I’ll live in both places, and so will you, if you’ll come. I can promise a better bed than this one. We can even pick one out together. Something enormous and sturdy.”

At the word _sturdy_ , he had gripped Bull between the legs and the Iron Bull lost all ability to comprehend words. He merely stripped Dorian naked and pulled him off in ten minutes.

They spent the next few hours saying hello again, before Dorian gestured he wanted to bathe in the tub, and Bull sat behind him on an armchair, kneading the knots out of Dorian’s smaller shoulders.

“I know I’m quite svelte now,” Dorian mocked lightly.

The Iron Bull dropped a kiss behind Dorian’s ear, making him shiver. “I’ll love you whatever shape you’re in.”

“Even a corpse in the Fallow Mire?”

“Even then.”

“Now you’re just being smart.”

“I found the gift under my pillow.”

Dorian turned in the bath, smiling. “Did you like it?”

“Did you actually wear it?”

“Would you believe I actually did?”

“Would you wear it now?”

“You’ll have to fetch it for me. Actually, bring all your things,” said Dorian, laughing. “I have a feeling we’ll be moving them all day.”

The Iron Bull lifted him easily out of the bath and tossed him wet and naked back on the bed. “Not yet,” he said, a half smile hooking up and over his ear. “This time, I don’t want anyone to see you but me.”

**Author's Note:**

> you guys have always been so awesome and kind with your reviews. thank you for the small serotonin washing machine cycle this fandom provides (content = reviews = content = ) especially in the midst of this year. i definitely notice the repeat commenters in my inbox and am filled with love even if we haven't spoken.


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